The War of the Dead
by The Silmaril Chick
Summary: When Fëanor son of Finwë does the impossible and escapes the eternal halls of Mandos, he throws the neatly ordered song of Arda into chaos. The fate of all people, both mortal and otherwise, will be forever changed and not even Námo Doomsayer can tell where this terrible path will lead us.
1. Chapter 1: The Escape

There have been many great battles and mighty wars fought on the shores of middle earth: the war of the three Jewels and the War of the Ring, being only two among many. The tale we tell here today is of one such war, many years in the making, and all those events that did spark it. For like most great wars it was not begun with one act of evil by a single soul, but of many. A chain of such acts cumulating until finally they combust in a wave of bloodshed and fire; such was the case for The War of the Dead and all that did take part in it.

Valinor, Halls of Mandos; 2980th year of the third age of Middle Earth

It was a point of fact among the fëa of Námo's halls that no one escaped Mandos. That wasn't to say no one left Mandos, indeed so long as you released all your anger and bitterness, choosing to leave and be reborn was a common enough practice. But the fact was that nobody ever escaped Mandos, no one ever forced their way past those eternal gates and out into the world beyond... no one sane at least. Then again whatever else you might say of him, no one could ever accuse Fëanor son of Finwë of being sane.

It took longer than one might have expected for the Lord of Mandos to realise something was wrong. Three days had passed and no soul in his halls had heard nary a peep from any Fëanorian residing there. At first it had been too peaceful to spark suspicion in him, but after the second day without the screams of some outraged Fëanorian piercing his eardrums, a gnawing sense of foreboding began to settle over him. If he had been someone else, we might have even called it fear, but he was Námo the Doomsayer, and he did not have the luxury of indulging in fear, especially where these fëa were concerned.

It took the whole of the next twenty-four hours, again far longer than Námo was comfortable with, for Mandos and his Maiar to comb the vast halls of his domain and discover that, yes, Fëanor was in fact no longer there. No one could come up with any explanation of how this could have possibly happened, and his sons remained as silent as they had been for the last three days. The mighty gates of the Doomsman's realm were under constant surveillance and it wasn't like the Halls of Waiting had a window you could climb out of.

Truly it was a riddle for the ages, but one sadly that would have to be answered later. For now, what mattered most was not how he had escaped, but what he was going to do now that he was out. There was no other choice, Námo would have to call a council of the Valar. Oh Eru, he was not looking forward to this.

Valinor, Manwë's chambers of council; Four days since Fëanor's escape

'And…let me just see if I've got this clear…you never realised he was missing.'

Varda had seen many things in her eternal life, many objectionable things… but non before, not even the evil of Morgoth, had left her quite so flummoxed. This shouldn't have been possible, the halls of Mandos were impermeable to everyone but Námo or one of his Maiar, and they were like that for a reason. What would the world come to if the dead could walk amongst the living however and whenever it so pleased them. More than that though, what disturbed her most of all was that this happened on Námo's watch, the Valar who she had considered the most professional.

'I won't make excuses for myself; it was a lapse in judgment and one that I take full responsibility for. I will bow to whatever punishment you deem fitting for me, but Fëanor has been missing for four days now,' said the Valar in question, his voice grown tired and hoarse after hours of repeating himself.

Tulkas squinted at the Lord of the Dead and snorted through his nose. 'All the past aside Mandos, Fëanor son of Finwë is naught but a spirit now, not even with an inkling of power, what true harm could he bring to the living?'  
Mandos met the fiery eyes of the Valar of War and answered him on the out breath of a sigh.

'Aye that he is, but you seem to forget Tulkas who we speak of, Fëanor will never be naught but a spirit. He caused far more than enough damage in life, there's no telling where his path of destruction will lead him now that he lacks the restraints of a physical body. Also, I find…' Námo's voice petered out and his whole body sagged, as if a great weariness of spirit had at long last taken hold and overcome him.

But Tulkas was never one to let things rest where they will. 'Yes?' The great hulking Valar prodded, leaning forward in his high seat to gaze emphatically at his faulting colleague. Námo's voice was shaky when he spoke again.

I find…I cannot see past the now. The visions of futures that may come no longer whisper to me, as if the world, the timeline and everything in between, is in an eternal state of flux. No one can say what lies before us, no one can say what path the son of Finwë will lead us down, most certainly not I! All is silent within me now, and I am Doomsayer no more.' Námo sank back down into his own chair, where he remained steadfastly mute for the rest of the council.


	2. Chapter 2: The Light Reclaimed

Arda, Rhûn; 2979, third age of Middle Earth

Pallando had walked the eastern lands of Middle Earth for many an age now – he'd seen generations of the people of this land born, grow, and pass away before his eyes. He'd seen their civilizations fall and rise, he'd seen the horrors of Morgoth and later Sauron, and the corrupted kings of old. Most of all though he'd seen that throughout all the lies, the deceit, and the terrors that were brought down upon his people (for they were his, much more so than any of the other Maiar or Istari) marched on. With each new hurdle, the world threw at them, they would simply pick themselves up, and continue. Men truly were, in his perhaps not so humble opinion, the most marvellous of creatures.

However, that was not to say they were without their frustrating elements, every race had at least one. The man in front of him, currently barring his way, was a sparkling example of one such element.

'Hear me now son of Rhûn, unbar my path or you will come to rue it; for I am Pallando called Rómestámo and I bring no evil here, lest you not remove yourself from my way.'

Pallando could feel every hair in his beard bristle as this man, nay this boy, flashed his teeth at the wizard in a patronizing grimace.

'I mean no offence, old man,' the boy replied in his own people's tongue, though judging by his reply he had clearly understood Pallando's meaning. 'But my lord Morinehtar has commanded me and my kinsmen to guard the entrances to his keep, letting none but those who are known to us pass its boundaries… and you are the strangest of strangers.'

The youth folded his arms over his chest and cocked his chin up at Pallando, a smug grin grown wide on his lips. The wizard's rage was enough that he very nearly smote the youngster where he stood, that was until the name the boy had spouted as his sovereign lord, clicked within the folds of the Maiar's memory.

'Go to him then and he will tell you…he will tell you my lad who Pallando called East Saviour is. For there is none who is his equal more then I boy, of that he will tell you I have no doubt.' The mocking smile of the child did not falter as he bared his long spear in Pallando's direction.

'I have humoured you enough for a year, Old Man, now be off with you before I'm forced to use this spear on your belly.' The boy may even have tried to do it, if the large, weather-beaten hand had not landed on his shoulder.

'Be at peace with you, cousin, Pallando is welcome and trustworthy, or as trustworthy as one may come to in these days,' said the older guard. Pallando thought that a very strange way to phrase such a thing, and by the looks of it, the young guardsman seemed to agree. But he gave way nether the less, though he did throw one last untrusting look at the blue wizard as the old man disappeared down the long and twisting tunnel behind him.

Ah Alatar, loveliest and most cunning of all Mandos' Maiar - how Pallando had missed him in the years they'd been separated by their duties. Pallando could not quite recall when he'd seen his fellow wizard last, but he remembered well his image. Who could forget the bent hawk-like figure he had followed into the East, the proud brows drawn together in a look of consternation and his green-blue eyes sparkling with mirth despite themselves. This was not the image that greeted the travel worn Istari when he, and his rather bulky guide, reached the end of the tunnel. The wizard – who now called himself Morinehtar – was bent double, crouched to the ground staring at something just out of Pallando's sight. His bald head shining in the dim light of the lamps hung low on the wall.

'Alatar?' The name had escaped Pallando's lips before he'd gathered enough of his wits to halt its progress. The old man's head snapped up and swivelled in the direction of the sound, only then did the blue Istari see the extent of his old friend's face. Gone were the sparkling blue-green orbs of yester-year, replaced now with empty pitiless sockets that still seemed to stare at Pallando with a look of very poorly concealed irritation. Perhaps he had not changed so very much then…within, at least.

'So, he has come at last, he who now calls himself Rómestámo.'

Pallando moved, or rather was pushed, closer until he was standing a mere breath away from the kneeling, eyeless Istari.

'A mighty name for someone who had to be dragged kicking and screaming to this land, tell me what news have you brought me that it was worth my time to meet with you?' Said this strange person, that could not possibly be his Alatar.  
And yet Pallando could feel the familiar feeling of mad annoyance deep within his belly, a sure sign that he truly was in the presence of Alatar.

'If your mind has slipped sufficiently enough for you to forget, then I shall remind you that it was you who summoned me.'

The half mad cackle was unlike any laugh he had ever heard, but there was still a glimmer to it, something of the joyful laugh of Alatar left in its unearthly tones.

'Well that I did, and for good reason kin of mine, come hither and gaze upon what I and those who follow me have reclaimed. I knew that you would not believe it thus possible, unless you were to see it with your own eyes.'

Alatar lifted the sphere he had been cradling in his old and withered hands; it was covered with a rag of poor cloth which his aged friend lifted with no small amount of flourish. But this Pallando hardly noticed, for the moment the rag was gone he was blinded by a white light unlike any mortal kind had ever beheld. Not since the destruction of the two trees of Valinor had such a brilliance been alive in any land he could name.

'By all the Valar in Valinor and Eru Ilúvatar himself, it cannot be…it…it is impossible!'

He could not see for certain his friend's answering grin, but Pallando knew the tone in Alatar's voice well enough to guess at it.

'But you have seen it Rómestámo, you have now seen with your own eyes what you would not have believed with your ears. Here in my lands it lay undisturbed for untold generations, and it was here in my lands that it was reclaimed. Aye, you can say its name my old friend, do not be afraid to, for it is not a cursed name.' When nothing but Pallando's silence answered him, Alatar puffed himself up and raised the glowing orb above his head, proclaiming with a voice as clear as the sea is vast.

'Beholden are all who stand here, for in my hands I holdeth joy, I holdeth beauty and light beyond all measure. I holdeth in my hands that which was flung into the fiery depths of the abyss. None but I could have reclaimed such a work of beauty from such a pit. So, rejoice all who hear my fair voice, for cradled in my hands is the very last of the mighty Silmarils!'


	3. Chapter 3: The Madness of Silence

Valinor, Halls of the dead; 2980th year of the third age of Middle Earth, 5 days since the escape of Fëanor

Deep in the heart of Mandos, Námo sat, hunched over on his great throne of stone, and thought. He thought of many things, here and there, rising and falling under the watchful eyes of the sun; but ultimately what each thought lead back to, was that one creature who had tormented him for longer than mere time could tell: Fëanor, son of Finwë.

He'd retired to his throne room as soon as the council had disbanded for the day, unwilling to linger a second longer than necessary. There was no need really to invite such probing questions from the other Valar, as like there would have been if he'd lingered. He'd told them all that they required to know to catch the confounded convict, he'd even let it slip of the silence now bouncing around his skull like so much wasted space. What else did they want…blood?

Aye, his blood, Námo could well believe it of Fëanor to be after such a sustenance, but maybe he thought too little of his colleagues. Or maybe he thought too highly, after all they knew not what was coming if Fëanor did not return to his place soon. Then again, the Valar of the Dead supposed, neither did he, now.

He was as blind as the rest of them.

Such could only be the will of Eru Ilúvatar.

Halls of Mandos, Vairë's chambers; Eight years since the escape of Fëanor

Vairë's loom clattered to the floor. She wasn't sure whether she'd thrown it herself out of her own frustration, or it had simply slipped from her ungainly fingers. No tale she had attempted to weave this day had turned out how it aught. Why just look at Varda's hair, it resembled more a puddle of faeces then the thick chocolate locks of her fellow Valar! Now she, and her hand maidens, stumbled and hesitated over her own husband's image. What was wrong with her? How hard should weaving her own husband's likeness into their tapestries be? Yet every time she tried, someone would fumble, or a strand would snap and each time it would unravel leaving nothing but an ungainly mess of thread and wool tangled round her loom. At last she'd called enough and sent her hand maidens away; they need not be troubled by the sight of their mistress in such a tizzy.

The weaver of the Valar crumpled to the floor, burying her head in her arms – such was her agony. This could only be the work of some foul demon from the deepest depths of Morgoth's imagination. Surely, she had not lost her skill for no other reason but forgetfulness, her skill, that she had spent beyond measure of eons perfecting. Surely such a well-honed thing should not be so easily forgotten by just a click of a finger, but then Vairë supposed, that would depend on the finger that clicked.  
Oh, Eru no, she had to speak to her husband right away.

Vairë stumbled through her husband's halls; they had never been quite so dark before to her recollection. No, not quite true, they had always been dark, it was how most fëa wanted to spend their afterlife or so Námo said, but she'd never found herself blinded by the darkness before. The weaver of the Valar had trouble believing it was just her memory failing her this time, there was something going on in the halls of Mandos, and she found it hard to believe that her sudden lack of skill in her art, was not somehow connected. She did not know how long she'd been immersed in her craft – due to their differing natures, her chambers did not exactly work on the same timeframe as the rest of her husband's realm. Why she remembered one time, she thought she'd lost a day buried in her art, and when she emerged it turned out she'd been away for a year. And yet the world had not changed as greatly then, as it had now. How long had she been away this time?

'Námo!' She called, trepidation making her voice shake as it'd never done before. 'My love, if you are there call back to me.'

Something hard hit her outstretched foot and she drew it back with a hiss and a yelp; whatever she had mistakenly struck seemed to detest the contact as much as she, for it let out an almighty groan. Deep and low it was, like an awaiting thunder storm readying to strike. She knew that sound.

'Námo?'

'Who's there? Who trespasses on my peace?' Said her husband. 'Be off with you I say, before I lose my patience and do some horrible deed to your person.'

Vairë nearly smiled at this, if circumstances had been merrier, she may well have laughed. 'I would like to see you try Husband of mine.' There was a gasp from the vicinity of her toes.

'Vairë? Nay it is not so, tis but the silence playing more tricks on me. It likes to do that you know, won't let me alone, even when I close my eyes against it, there is the beast screaming in my ears. Well it won't destroy this Valar, not today …'  
Vairë's smile had dropped altogether from her face and she involuntarily stepped back.

'You'll find me quite real and substantial my love, if you would but reach out and take my hand.' In saying so she extended her own hand towards the sound of his heavy breathing, and waited patiently for him to grasp at it. He didn't, instead there were the sounds of someone shuffling with quite haste away from her.

'I'm no fool, I was doomsayer for more years then mortals can count; many have tried to trick me before you, sprite, and with much better and greater tales then you have twisted here today.' Vairë stepped forward, though both caution and good sense told her to remain where she was.

'Námo please, come to my voice and I will lead you back to the light. There is nothing in me for you to fear.' The laugh that greeted this statement was hard and brittle, certainly not the sound she had grown to treasure so over the millennium.

'Now that is a tale none have been so daring to try to whisper in my ear before today, well done, sprite. Regardless though I'll still not be caught in thy web, Vairë would not come to this place now, it is far too dark and dank for one of such beauty to sully themselves with. I would think my beloved would have enough sense to avoid it, if she possibly could. Be gone with you now or I'll set my hounds on you. Well, I suppose they're not really so much hounds as they are, well…Fëa.'

Around them the walls began to glow, and blank figures peeled themselves away from them, and trudged towards the now illuminated pair. With her fear growing with every laboured step the creatures took towards them, Vairë finally looked down and met her husband's eyes for the first time, and what she saw in their dark depths scared her more than all the fëa lodged in these halls could ever hope to: madness, true and unyielding madness.

Her scream could be heard in every corner of Valinor and even across the sea, in the lands of mortals, they could hear a change in the wind as if…as if something terrible had happened. So terrible that it woke many a great King of men, Elf or Dwarf from their slumber in a fit of terror.


	4. Chapter 4: The Light Remade

Middle Earth, Western Rhûn; August, 2979th year of the third age

For many days and nights now Pallando had ridden with no end in sight. He couldn't afford to stop at any of the inns he passed on his way, there was too much of a chance he might be recognized by one of the patrons. He'd made a big enough name for himself around these parts, that any man worth his money could tell him from the brim of his wide hat. One of the many reasons the earth bound Maiar had chosen to ride without it, a loss perhaps, but a hood would hide him better.

There had been much loss as of late, he wished he would not dwell on it so, but on the long and dusty roads of this land, with no company save the horse that carried him – it was hard not to seek inwards for distraction. Harder still that the last conversation with Alatar refused to fade into the comforting darkness of a forgetful mind.

_'__You've become quite mad after all this time, haven't you my dear Pallando?'_ His fellow wizard seemed to hiss into his ear, no…that was madness, twas naught but the wind. It had started to pick up and had a biting chill to it, by rights he should probably look for shelter soon. Perhaps there was some sort of cave nearby.

_'__Hiding in a cave, like the sneak and liar you are, how fitting.'_ Alatar's voice was not floating on the wind's current, no it was…it was just his paranoia playing tricks with his senses. Yes, that must be it, well nice try but Pallando the Blue was much too wise to fall victim to that prank, at least at this stage of his journey. Cradling his precious cargo against his chest, Pallando urged his steed forward, squinting through the rain that had begun to fall heavily around him. If that wasn't proof of Alatar's corrupting influence on this poor land, then Pallando didn't know what was. He jerked his horse's rains sharply, a little too sharply it would seem; for when his beast shuddered to a stop the old wizard went hurtling over its head, landing face down in the mud beside the animal's feet. From beneath his cloak his prize tumbled forth and away from him, it's light creating a beacon in the storm for all those who might have lost their way, or _alternatively_, all those who might have long lost his trail.

Pallando scrabbled for the Silmaril, only serving to push it further into the mouth of the cave. The mud beneath him squelched between his fingers, propelling his hands forward. His face hit something sharp and he could feel the blood begin to well from his nose. Judging by that hard-cracking sound, he had well and truly broken the dratted thing this time. Oh, to think how the other Maiar would laugh so to see mighty Pallando the Blue now, drenched and broken over a blood-stained beard. Alatar would certainly have a good old chuckle, well maybe not now, but the true Alatar, the boy he had been when they left Valinor – would have a had a right old giggle. If time were not so dear for his task, Pallando would weep at what had become of that boy, but now was not the time for such lamentations of grief and woe.

The wizard's heart rate grew as he crept into the dark of the cave before him, he'd lost sight of the Silmaril and behind him he could hear the distant sound of a horse's gallop. However, whether that was his own steed making its escape or one of his hunters finally catching on to his trail, was uncertain. Pressing himself flat against the wall, the wizard felt his way along it; there was no need to continue to scrabble around blindly in the dirt, when he found the mighty gem again, he would not need his hands to see it. The sound of galloping grew closer and Pallando felt his chest constrict, no they can't have it… it was his…no, no, what was he saying? It wasn't his, it was the Valar's and he was going to return it to them no matter what the cost. A shadow appeared over the mouth of the cave and a loud, shaky voice cried out.

'Rómestámo! Rómestámo the blue!' Pallando remained still, not sure whether this person was friend or foe.

'I bring tidings from your brother wizard!' The fool didn't even have to finish before Pallando was off and down the tunnel, faster than any mortal could have seen; but he didn't have long before this mortal's shock wore off, and he'd be after him again. Skirting round what he had hoped was a corner, Pallando found that the very ground beneath his feet had vanished. He didn't have time to scream before he was falling deeper and deeper into the earth. He couldn't scream while he was falling because the wind stole the air from his throat; so, it wasn't until his knees hit the ground below, that Pallando's scream at last left his lips.

The ear-splitting noise bounced off the surrounding rock and vibrated back into his skull, until the old wizard was sure that he'd gone mad from the sound, if he hadn't been mad already. He jammed his gnarled fingers into his ears, and curled in on himself, chanting in rhythmic fashion to 'make it stop, make it stop, oh Valar make it stop'. It would seem they heeded him, for the noise soon dimmed to an echoing murmur and Pallando was once again able to raise his head without complete agony. Stiffly he raised himself up, gripping the wall when he swayed dangerously to the left – he felt quite light headed. Pushing himself away from the rocks, he stumbled forward and collapsed to the ground, retching.

The soft humming at the back of his mind had begun to grow in pitch and volume, until he couldn't even hear his own breathing over it. The noise beckoned him, pressuring him to come hither, and he obeyed as much as he could. Not trusting his stomach's strength on standing straight, Pallando crawled towards what he was almost certain was the source of the beautiful sound. Further, further on Maiar, it seemed to say to him, and further he went; further down the tunnel, further than his aching body could cope with and further than even his mind could comprehend, at least in its current state.

He pulled himself over jagged rocks and his hands began to bleed until they were little more than ragged flesh over bone. That didn't stop him though, in fact it hardly slowed him down at all. What truly could, now that he could see it, see the brilliant light that had called to him? It had been said that the light of the Silmarils was unlike any light on this earth or beyond, truly such a description paled in the presence of the living thing. For it was a living thing, how could it not be? A living, thriving life force of pure love and power, that reached out to him even now to grasp it and hide it where no Man, Elf or Valar could discover it. He reached his ravaged hands towards the light and grasped it tightly in their bloody palms. Even as he held it, his flesh began to sizzle under the Silmaril's light, but the gem's voice was too mighty in his mind for him to take much heed of pain in the physical world.

'Give me breath,' it seemed to say. 'Give me being, give my light a form.' Heeding its words Rómestámo opened his mouth and cried. At first it was little more than a wordless wail, but slowly words began to emerge from within its terrible depths.

_Flesh of the gentle_  
_Heart of the strong_  
_Give thy form for_  
_Bread and Bone_  
_And Lay thy Head_  
_In Mother's Womb_  
_Seek thee now where_  
_Bond is strong_  
_I give thee now _  
_Thy Mortal Form_

Suddenly his body was ablaze, and he screamed now not in abundant joy but terror; he could not feel, he could not see, and he could not hear anything, but the Silmaril as its Elf-made shell cracked and shattered all around him. Centuries old glass splintered into the soft flesh of his up raised face, sinking into the underside of his eyelids, and blinding him. The Silmaril too seemed to scream, although it lacked the voice to truly express its pain as he did. Yet the way its core twisted and shuddered around the wizard's grasp, seemed to cry out no less strongly than Pallando.

Another voice joined in their harmony of pain, deeper and huskier, the voice that had propelled Rómestámo down the dark winding tunnel to what would appear to be his doom.

'Rómestámo of the East! I bring word from your comrade and fellow wizard...' The comrade's name was drowned out by the Silmaril. It had found its voice at last, and it was a terrible thing to behold; it cried so loud and so harshly the rock around them began to crumble, large chunks of stone fell in on themselves and Rómestámo soon found himself caged and unable to move. The ceiling too was no match for the sound of the Silmaril in his hands. Inwardly Rómestámo marvelled that he had somehow eluded death, with so much destruction mere steps from where he sat. Finally, the light of the Silmaril began to rise; slowly at first and then as if called by some force unknown, it shot from his sight and up into the darkness of the night sky above.

The wizard fell back, too exhausted to care whose heavy footstep now echoed down the tunnel, as he let a darkness of his own claim him at last.


	5. Chapter 5: The Deal

Valinor, Manwë's secret chambers: eight years after the escape

Tulkas closed his eyes to the general chatter of the room. It was amazing that Varda and Manwë had even managed to fit the rest, well, almost the rest, of the Valar into this small chamber. Let alone the half dozen or so lesser Maiar who had been crammed into the farthest seats behind them. This place was not designed to hold so many people, it was barely designed to hold two of them.

'My friends, my dearest wife, and all that do heed our call…'

'Manwë, for once could you please just get to the point, we've all been run off our feet, and another elongated lecture on the virtues of patience, or the will of Eru, is not what we need.' Manwë turned to blink owlishly at the clipped and tired tones of his wife.

'My apologies oh dearest one, I did not realise I was being so tiring. Perhaps I shall attempt to curb my enthusiasm for lecturing in the future. But that was not why I called you all here today.'

'Then what was it?' Aulë grumbled behind the long bristles of his beard.

'My brothers and sisters, and all that do attend this hearing, I have found, nay discovered a solution to our problem.'

'Which problem would that be oh, great lord of us all?' Aulë's cheek towards the one Valar who could put the Smith in his place had grown exponentially since…since Fëanor's escape. Tulkas scowled at the larger Valar, this was not helping. All it would take was for one wrong word, one misplaced step and Varda would snap, and no doubt take them all down with her.

Eru, he wished Námo was here right now, but he had retreated into his own domain after his failure and had not stepped a foot out since.

'My wife has brought up a very keen element of the argument my friends, we are all run off our feet. The simple fact is, hard as we might try, we cannot locate Fëanor, he is simply too slippery in his fëa form for most of our kind to see clearly.'

The Maker of the Dwarves, snarled under his breathe. 'Well then why doesn't Námo go looking for him, he is the keeper of the dead after all.'

'Námo is not a part of this anymore. He has already showed his capability regarding this issue, and we will not waste time by having him prove his weakness… again.' Varda's voice was cold and clipped, and Tulkas prayed to Eru that the stupid Smith would not push it any further. Varda had always been stern when it came to the other Valar, but ever since this…this incident with Námo, she'd been as strict as a mother to a disobedient babe. It was as if she viewed them all as children, ready to send the world of mortal men into chaos on a whim of a temper tantrum.

'No indeed,' spoke the King of all the Valar over his wife. 'Námo's self-isolation in its self is a marked sign that we cannot rely on his guidance or keenness of sight in this matter. Yet the realm of the Dead is not wholly without capability to lend us aid.'  
Many of the younger Valar and Maiar blinked stupidly at that turn of phrase, and all Tulkas could do was close his eyes and try to pretend he was anywhere else.

'Bring them in!'

Tulkas looked up, as a cold shiver passed over him, no, not over him, by him. Something cold, and entirely alien to the living had walked by. No, not just one thing, six of them. Six, houseless, bodiless spirits had just glided past him and joined Manwë at the front of the room. They formed a neat little line under the bright light of Manwë. Now that Tulkas could see them clearly, he could recognize them. Oh, Eru no, Manwë no, not this, any solution but this.  
But Manwë would not be stopped.

'We must admit our weakness on this matter, my kinsmen. We are as clueless as the day he was conceived when it comes to the might of Fëanor. Only those who truly knew him in life, who truly understand the danger he could cause to the lands beyond the sea, have any hope of finding him before that danger comes to pass.' He gestured to the six fëa standing sombrely now by his side.

'Seven sons he had in life, six there were in the halls of Mandos and now six stand before you. Sons of Fëanor, do you accept the task to find your father before he spreads wrath and wickedness across the lands of mortals?'  
They stood as one, they turned their heads to face Manwë as one, and as one they did answer.

'We do.'

There was a rumble of discontent from the crowd, but none were brave enough to stand against their king. Not even on a matter such as this, not even to save their mortal and elven brethren across the water. None, not even Tulkas, would stand against Manwë.

'If you succeed your forgiveness is assured, and you may return to this place not as fëa, but as Elves made whole.'

And as each of the sons of Fëanor faded from the crowd's sight, they all offered a small bow to the collective assembled, well, all that is except Celegorm who smirked at Tulkas and then winked, before he too vanished from sight.

Manwë clapped his hands as if to draw the matter to a close, but Tulkas could not tear his eyes away from the shaking figure of Varda sitting silently by her husband's side. He could not tell whether she shook from sorrow, fear, rage, or even laughter, it had become so hard to tell lately. Yet one truth above all remained clear in his mind. The truth that perhaps, just perhaps, Lady Varda might have had a point about the rest of them.

Maybe they all were just one unbelievably stupid decision away, from destroying everything.

And that was the moment when the Valar, in all their mighty glory, heard that terrible, heart-wrenching scream. Vairë's scream. And all thoughts of the terrible mistake they had just made, were suddenly gone from Tulkas' mind; for there were more important things to attend to now.


	6. Chapter 6: The Convict & the Madman

Middle Earth, Southern Rhûn; 2980th year of the third age of Middle Earth

Fëanor had known darkness, and not just that second-hand, hand me down darkness that creatures of today went on about, no Fëanor had known true darkness. The darkness that orcs and Balrogs bowed to, he had known it and he had tamed it. He was the fire of his people, the greatest smith among any race and he had forged the mightiest of creations; the Silmarils. So why was he being subjected to this humiliation?

It had been bad enough being trapped in those wretched halls of waiting, cowed under the boot of that infernal buffoon Mandos; but at the very least there he could walk around and make his voice heard. It was generally ignored, even by those who shared his blood, but at least he had that option – not so this place.

Pressing his face to the wizard's barrier, Fëanor let the energy wash over him. It still burned him but that was good in its way; pain was something real, something that could make him feel like he was not still in the Halls of Mandos. Perhaps the only silver lining to this terrible nightmare. And yet, it would appear he had simply traded one jailer for another, and this one was much further down the sliding scale of insanity.

It had been many an hour now since the old man had re-joined his prisoner, and as of yet he'd said not but a quick hello to the captive Fëa. All the old fool did was sit, sit and stare into the cage, for cage is all it could be called. Yet Fëanor had not been idle in his forced captivity, for every second that he was observed, he observed right back; taking in every aspect of his captor's appearance and demeanour, which did not paint a pleasant picture. The wizened old man's beard reached down past his belt, which sagged on his body like there had once been a sizable belly there, and the belt had not yet been adjusted to composite for the loss of it. The man's sizeable nose hooked over his chin, or at least where Fëanor assumed his chin to be, so thick and bushy was the man's beard. Most unnerving of all though, beneath heavy brows stared at him sightless sockets where once might have been eyes. The windows to the man's own Fëa were gone.

'Fëanor, son of Finwë do you know where you are?' Fëanor remained silent, no force in this world could make him speak to this sightless spectre. However, this did not seem to deter his jailer in the least.

'You are here in my land, my realm, the elves call it Rhûn; how very original don't you think? The eastern lands of Middle Earth all counted together and called east, what a work of true inspiration on the part of your kind.' The old man made a humphing sound into the thickest part of his beard.

'Well I shouldn't be surprised you gave this land so little thought, after all you had much to occupy yourself with.'

The beard clad face pressed its self to Fëanor's bars and the great smith found himself recoiling in repulsion. There were small wriggling things residing within the folds of that mighty beard. 'After all what are the lives of Mortal men, and not even Numenorean men, next to the Silmarils.' A smile stretched across the retched old face as Fëanor's head snapped up.

Silmarils, Silmarils, Silmarils…his creations were all he had ever wanted since first his hands had forged them. They were why he'd come back; they were how he had come back…he was certain of it…they were in danger…and as their creator, he had to put a stop to it.

'Yes, I've got your attention now, haven't I? Even now those marvellous gems still call to you, I understand. For I too have felt their pull, I too have held them...well one of them anyway.'

Fëanor blinked slowly, either the man was mad, which was entirely likely, or he was speaking the truth. Of course, there was no reason he could not be both mad and honest at the same time. Undisturbed by the utter lack of response from his audience, the old man continued on with his rant.

'I found it, it was all mine and he took it from me. Said I was mad, that I'd end up killing every mortal that walked this earth if I did not watch myself. Ha!' The sharp word was punctuated by the following cackle that nearly snatched Fëanor out of his own contemplations, but not quite.

'As if that would truly be the worst of fates for this world, look what mortals have done, the wretched ones anyway. Yes, I'll be truthful, there's no point in denying it, if I had my way every creature not of Elven or Numenorean blood would be wiped from the face of Middle-Earth! Then ah yes, yes, we would have peace then; only the worthy of lineage would remain, and light would return to this dark and desolate place.'

The man shook his bushy head, smiling as if he could see the haven he described before him. Then his smile faltered, and he spoke once more, his voice heavy and graver then it had been before.

'And I was so very close to achieving my goal, if it weren't for Pallando I would have succeeded where none other in my order have. Not even the great Gandalf and Saruman would have surpassed me in my greatness. To think, I had the Silmaril in my hands...with my power it would have destroyed them all... consuming them in its glorious light!'

He raised his hands to the sky as if trying to re-enact the light of the Silmaril blazing with mortal flesh in tow. What he ended up doing was lowering the barrier which separated Fëanor's Fëa from the mortal plain, and by extension himself. Alatar the blue noticed too late what was happening, and thus was undefended when the ghost of Fëanor surged into him.

The wizard hunched over and shook, he could feel the Kinslayer's spirit within him and he struggled with all his might that it might not take control fully. He was too weak from not only his toils in the east, but his fight with Pallando, he did not have the strength to expel the wicked spirit entirely. Not without suitable aid, and alas there were none to be found where he had hidden the captured Fëa. In his chest, the wizard of the East could feel the two spirits, Fëanor's and his own, rip in to each other. If he survived this at all he would be little more than a walking shell, hardly able to lift his head; but such a fate could not be worse then what awaited them both if Fëanor succeeded. He must stand strong in this battle; he must be firm and unyielding in his assaults upon the wretched Elf.

But it was too much, and finally that once great wizard, crumpled to the floor, twitching as the last remains of his shattered Fëa entangled with the greater spirit. I could tell you all that went through that pitiful mind as it faded into nothingness… but it is far too horrible to even contemplate, and I have not the stomach to write it. So, all I will say is this: the creature that pulled its self from that floor a few hours later, was certainly not the wizard.


	7. Chapter 7: A Shire Renaissance

Arda, The Shire, Hobbiton: T.A. 2988, Shire Reckoning 1388; January 4th

The Shire had changed since Gandalf's last visit, of that he was certain, yet he couldn't pinpoint the reason for it. By all accounts, none of the circumstances of the inhabitants of this gentle land had differed since last he beheld them. At least not dramatically enough to warrant some of the change he'd encountered on his road to Bag End.

For starters, there was certainly a lot more metalworkers and blacksmiths. He seemed to pass one on every turn of the road. Though it was more than the hobbits new found enthusiasm for the art of metalwork, it was how they were implementing it. He'd seen more than a few Gentlehobbits pass him by with intricate metal creations sewed onto their clothes, or dangling from their ears, or in at least one remarkable case replacing their limbs. It didn't exactly feel wrong, but Gandalf couldn't deny that it unnerved him.

Another change in the inhabitants of this land seemed to be their attitude towards him. In the past Gandalf was sure that he would have received many a disapproving look, if not outright glare, as he rode by; but every hobbit he'd thus far passed had given him nothing but a smile and a friendly greeting. Even the blacksmiths hammering hard at their anvils would pause in their work and offer him a quick wave. The wizard tried not to be unsettled by this, for it could only be called an improvement, but he had to admit that it did feel strange to him.

Yet the most astounding difference of all was found in the contraption speeding down the road of Hobbiton at an alarming rate… towards him. He could not identify it on sight, but it had four wheels held together by several long metal pipes. On a raised platform, there were four precariously perched seats on which sat three young hobbits, one holding a smaller wheel that seemed to be controlling the four others. Later, he might have even been intrigued by the contraption, but right now all that Gandalf the Grey could feel was a rising sense of terror.

Wizard and beast found themselves diving headfirst into the stream that had babbled along beside them for most of their journey up Hobbiton. The horse managed to leap from land to water with little bother; the wizard on the other hand fell and landed in a crumpled mess, knocking his head hard on a large rock. There was a loud crash from overhead and the sound of several raised voices, darkness crept round his vision and he found it hard to focus on what was happening. Just as blackness had almost consumed his sight entirely, the wizard beheld a great light. Mighty it was, yet soft as sunlight glinting from a field of wheat, he reached out to touch it and found it solid and with form.

'Oh, Blarney Son, Blarney Son, Ham! We've killed 'im, we've killed 'im! We've killed Mister Bilbo's Wizard!'

The darkness began to fade from the wizard's vision, as did the light and at last Gandalf found himself looking into the face of a concerned young hobbit.

'Ah…' The wizard stared as the boy, whose shoulder Gandalf was still gripping, helped him stand.

'Oh, thank the Blarney Son you're alright, Sir, but we must have really given you a knock. Would you like us to bring you to one of the healers, or Mister Bilbo?' Regaining his balance, Gandalf shook his head, waving the boy, not unkindly, away.

'It is fine; it will take more than a spooked horse to fell Gandalf the Grey.' The old wizard said putting away the experience for proper examination later. 'What was that contraption you were in?' Before the boy could answer another voice rose up over the hill, shortly followed by the appearance of a burly young hobbit in a blacksmith's apron, and a young hobbit lass with the most peculiar set of bronze coloured glasses perched upon her golden curls.

'Sam-Lad you liar, he's not dead at all!' The deep-ish, slightly cracking voice indicated that the husky hobbit was closer to adulthood then the other two, so it was to him that Gandalf directed his questions. Although to accomplish this feat Gandalf had to raise his voice to a considerable level, to be heard over the bickering below him.

'What on Yavvanna's grace is going on here?' The three hobbits heads snapped up to the wizard, and the eldest at least looked slightly sheepish. But the wizard took no notice. 'Honestly all I am trying to accomplish on this not so very pleasant day, is my arrival at the home of one Bilbo Baggins of Bag End! I have no idea what has become of Hobbits, or why your kind act so strangely now. But quite frankly I don't care, bring me to Bag End and we will hear nothing more of this nonsense.'

The Blacksmith hobbit's ire rose at this.

'I don't know what you mean by strangely sir, this is just how hobbits act. You've been done wrong by this day, and for that we apologize, but there weren't no evil intent in it. And you're in the wrong there to call our race strange when we keep our peace on your kinds oddities!' Breathing heavily the lad straightened his apron and stared Gandalf down, only looking away when the wizard nodded, deciding to at least act bemused, though irritation was closer to the surface of his thoughts.

'Right well, as for Mister Bilbo that's our intent here. Our mission I mean, he sent us to go find you, because you were taking so long.'

Gandalf felt like grumbling into his beard at the impertinence of hobbits.

'Well then take me there now or be off with you for I'd rather be lost in this land of madness then suffer a fool of a guide.' When the three hobbits gasped, Gandalf knew that he had let his temper get the best of him and had spoken too harshly. But before he could gather himself to make a half-hearted attempt to apologise, the elder hobbit had stormed back up the bank yelling a curse of: 'Fine then, be lost and die for all I care. Stupid old wizard tricks good hobbits into doing your dirty work, then runs off and leaves them to starve in the middle of strange lands. Well I'm done with ye!' after him.

A few minutes later there was the noise of mechanically whirling gears from up ahead, and the sound of the great metal beast moving off minus two of its passengers. The two fauntlings squawked indignantly and rushed back to the road, the wizard following snakingly behind them.

'Damn Ham, he's gone and left us with the workload again.' Swore the girl kicking up the dust of the road with her small furry feet and taking off after the beast, with no thought of the other two left behind. The young hobbit left by the wizard's side sighed.

'Well that's done it now ain't it.' Then turning to face the wizard. 'Bag End's just over that last turn of the road Mister Gandalf Sir, can you make it on your own from here?' Gandalf was about to snap that he had made it on his own just fine until he was waylaid by the sorry trio, but the lad was already too far away to hear, and the wizard didn't feel it worth the effort to yell after him.

Bilbo did not enjoy being interrupted when he was in the middle of writing, in fact one might even go so far as to say that Bilbo hated being interrupted in the middle of writing. So, it isn't hard to imagine his level of ire upon hearing the rapping at his door, but of course he was a respectable hobbit, despite what some cousins who will go nameless might think. He'd had the famous manners of the Bagginses drilled into him at an early age, so on automatic, he finally answered the now frantic banging on his front door.

'Gandalf?'

The wizard that had spirited Bilbo Baggins away on that infamous adventure oh so many years ago, now stood at his door looking quite the worst for ware. Again, Bilbo's parents' training surfaced, and he quickly ushered his guest into the parlour and went about fixing them both something to eat. When Bilbo had returned laden with a tray of a freshly baked loaf from this morning and several jars of marmalade and jam, he set them down on the small table in front of the slightly hunched over wizard.

'Now…' said the adventurous hobbit. 'What on Mother Magda's Elven Lover, seems to have happened to you my good wizard? You look like you've just been beseeched by a pack of orcs…' Bilbo paused in thought. Considering his old friend's hectic lifestyle that may well have been true. 'You weren't, were you? Because if there are orcs in the Shire…' The wizard waved his hand, silencing Bilbo mid fuss.

'Hush Bilbo, there are no orcs in the Shire you may hold your peace on that account. But I have encountered misfortune.' Bilbo leaned closer, worry clear across his brow.

'It is hard to explain but I was run over by three young hobbits riding a metal beast… on wheels.'

The older hobbit couldn't hold in his laughter, though he didn't think Gandalf would hold it against him, for he was a good sort. Still he had to rein it in at last, if nothing else but to console the poor wizard.

'Oh my, I am sorry Gandalf, you aren't injured, are you?'

The wizard replied in the negative, still rather bemused by the whole situation.

'Well that is good to hear, as for your attackers that'll be some of the Gamgee sprogs, I sent them out to fetch you when I heard tell of your arrival on my doorstep. I didn't think they'd take the Auto out for such a small task, but then I suppose, sitting there all big and shiny and new it was a bit impossible to resist. But tell me…' Bilbo continued when it looked like all Gandalf was capable of doing right now was sitting and blinking at the rambunctious hobbit.

'What brings Gandalf the grey all the way to the Shire on this very fine day? You say there are no orcs here about, well that is good, but all cannot be so very well when you look quite so pale my friend. And don't tell me that was all the Gamgees doing, I've been run down by one of those new 'Automatic Carriages' myself from time to time and never come out of it looking quite as close to death as you have. So, tell me, what's the reason for your visit?'

Gandalf doffed his hat from his head onto the floor of Bagend, and sighed dejectedly.

'I'd had a very long trip before that incident, the world outside grows more worrying by the day Bilbo. And I grow tired of the fights and bickering of men. I meant to find rest in the unchanging hills of the Shire. But it would seem even here affairs grow more worrisome by the day, tell me what great upheaval has Hobbitkind suffered to cause such a change in their very nature?'

'In their very nature, Gandalf?' Bilbo sounded almost incredulous as he smeared marmalade on a thick chunk of seedy bread, deliberately not meeting the wizard's eyes. 'How very over dramatic of you, nothing has changed in any hobbit's "very nature". Though it would seem our minds are working at top speed these days. Autos aren't the only invention on the streets of Hobbiton you know, though perhaps the only one capable of taking down a wizard.'

Bilbo quirked a smile up at the old wizard who did not seem to find it at all funny, so Bilbo continued on quickly.

'But as for any great upheaval, I'm afraid there's been nothing of that sort. Just one day round eight years ago, people started to have these very useful ideas. I will admit it's a little odd to happen this late in the Shire's history, but it's hardly the first-time hobbits have had good ideas. Why just look at buttons or indoor plumbing, both had to come from somewhere, didn't they?' Bilbo, his explanation finished, leaned back in his chair and fished out his pipe from his jacket's pocket.

As Gandalf accepted some of the hobbit's old Longbottom Leaf, he couldn't quite keep the worried frown from his face. 'It is still troubling that it all happened so fast.'

Bilbo relented after another long puff of old Toby.

'Mm, perhaps, though troubling is hardly the word I would use… whatever the case though, it is hardly worth getting quite so upset over, especially since no evil has been wrought from it. Oh, that reminds me, you must stay long enough to see my newest play, I call it the Princess and the Silmaril.'

Meanwhile, somewhere in Rhûn 

The man stood above them…above these men that had come from all corners of the mortal world. Men drawn from the West, the South, the North and the East stood side by side in that colossal crowd. Some men still wore the blue of the old Wizard's uniform, while others refused to part from the costumes of their homeland – even when the heat of Rhûn made a fur cloak a ridiculous addition to your outfit. They were all so different, these men of insight and courage, and yet all of them had been drawn here. To this great echoing chamber, where the man on the platform, the once wizard, the now elf stood looking over them with a patronising glint in his fine green eyes.

They had not come here for him alone, but merely what he represented – a myth, a legend, a glimpse back into a past that had never truly been. Long and tiring had been his journey to gather them, to spread the rumour of the light that would surely bring about a newer and better age to Middle-Earth, and yet now, looking down into their eager convinced faces, the man knew it was all worth it.

The Wizard was dead.

The Wizard was gone.

But the men beneath him did not need to know that.

'My friends, my brothers, I come before you now not as your new leader. Not as a general or wise man, but as a friend. I alone among my people, great and mighty as they are, have come down from across the ocean, to bring you my news.'

There was a murmur throughout the crowd, almost unbelieving, the man…the wizard…the elf, tried to bite back the annoyance that swelled within him. Men were much more trusting in the First Age of the sun, but he could work with this – after all, he'd done it before.

'Long has been my journey, long have been my trials but finally…after all these years I have returned to you, my loyal followers. I will return what was stolen from one I should never have trusted. For you see, I have found my Silmaril.'  
And a great cry came up from the crowd then, a cry of such joy that it struck the breath from even the mighty lungs of the Jewel's crafter.

'My friends, I weep for your joy, but our task is not ended…for they have taken the Silmaril from me and they have hidden it where they believe I will not find it.'

The crowd booed and Fëanor clapped them into silence.

'But we shall take it back, and,' and this next part he screamed until his throat was raw. 'We will not stop until their blood stains their rolling green land for a hundred generations!'

And below him, the crowd went wild.


	8. Chapter 8: Passage of the Dead

Valinor, Halls of the Dead: T.A. 2989

It was a blessing in truth that no Elf till now had died, for if they had tried to enter the once hallowed halls of Mandos, they would have found themselves sadly turned away at the gates, or worse yet… let inside. For not even his fellow Valar were brave enough to enter into Mandos' domain as it was now. However, Milui had little choice in the matter, he'd been struck down by an orc blade and now it was either risk the eternal darkness of Mandos or return to Arda as an aimless spirit for the rest of his days.

Before him stretched a long tunnel, of which he knew he either must brave or turn away from, like the coward he really was. Like always he procrastinated the choice, dawdling just within the gates between life and death, unsure on what do. He had never been particularly strong willed or decisive in life, well, he'd never really had to be. It wasn't as if he was a great leader of elves, he'd been a cook, for Manwë's sake! Not even an army cook, just your regular everyday household cook that had the poor fortune to get an orc blade in his belly when his lord's household had been ambushed from the south. He'd never had to decide something this important, even cooking decisions had been decided by the head cook – which wasn't him thank the Valar.

He would have cracked under all that pressure.

In his uncertainty about his path Milui had waited too long – the choice had been taken from his hands, and he found himself moving unconsciously closer to the bright door ahead of him. Beyond the faintly glowing door he could hear voices. They were singing in a low and enticing key that made the very hairs on his head curl just to hear it. He was still half humming that tune when he passed through the open door and joined in the song in its entirety.

****  
Valinor, Halls of Mandos, Mandos' private chamber: seven months later

'Námo is no more.'

That was the phrase the mighty Mandos repeated over and over in the privacy of his own head, not because he wanted to, but because he had to. How else was he going to drum it in, how else was he going to take it as gospel? For, though parts of him still resisted, it truly was that – the evidence alone was damning: Lord Námo had been well respected among his fellow Valar, Mandos was sniggered at when he walked by. Námo had had loving wife, Mandos had not seen his own wife for years. Whether of her own will or his, Mandos was no longer quite sure anymore. He had not been fooled by that imp the other Valar had sent into his domain. He had known it was not Vairë, he would have never hurt Vairë. The others, those once trusted kin of his, had taken their creature away still sobbing, still pretending it was Vairë, but Mandos knew better. Most of all though, it was the fact that the dead flinched from his touch, an act they had never committed against the surprisingly benevolent Námo, so it was obvious now to him really…whoever Námo had been, it wasn't him.

'My Lord N…Mandos' The voice that interrupted him was small and could barely be heard over the hypnotic chanting of the rest of the dead, but it was still undeniably there – a fact that irked the Lord of Mandos deeply.

'Yes Milui? This had better be something actually important, or you'll find your afterlife growing even more desolate than it has been.'

The Valar of Death turned and faced his subject in full, and surveyed the rather limp looking Fëa. Perhaps there was little more that Mandos could do to the weak spirit that his own domain hadn't already: the height that had made the elf seem misleadingly impressive in life, now made him seem gaunt and bony. And his once fat and rosy cheeks had hollowed and paled till they resembled much more a skeleton than the gentle cherub that had bounced into his kingdom so many… what was it? Weeks, months, he really couldn't tell anymore.

'Yes, my lord, very important indeed, we've done it! The Passage is complete!'

Milui had to leap out of the way as the lord of Mandos came barrelling out of his room and down the hall whence the fëa had come from, faster than a stallion in heat. Milui sunk to the floor, relief washing over him like a cool splash of water; it was over, it was all finally over.

The Passage of the Dead as it was so affectionately called by the denizens of Mandos, had been many centuries in the making. In fact, you could even go so far as to say that Mandos had been working on this 'project' since the moment of his own creation.

Because the true and undeniable fact of Mandos was that nobody liked being in Mandos: not even the lord of it.

A few centuries back Vairë had somehow convinced her husband to stop, that what he was doing was wrong and, being the naive fool he'd been back then, he'd believed her. So, he had stopped, filled in what had already been dug out and went about the task that had been assigned to him: keeping the dead inside Mandos. But that had been years ago, before Fëanor had escaped, before Námo's beloved wife had begun to despise him, before she sealed herself away in her sewing room. Over-hyped seamstress – she was better off behind that door.

Thus, without his wife to temper him, and with the daily taxation on his mind that was the hatred and scorn from those he had once called kin, Mandos had allowed his old project to rekindle. Now, for many that had died construction of this mighty tunnel became their entire world.

Its purpose was something strange and alien to the Halls of Waiting, for it was not built for containment like most creations under this cursed roof. Twas to be, or so the Mighty lord of Mandos proclaimed, their road to salvation and at long last freedom. And now it was finished, after all this time and bloodshed the thing was finally finished!

All that they had to do now, was wait and see what Mandos' final verdict would be.

Slowly the Valar of Death moved down the line of workers, as he passed each Fëa bowed their head in deference. Finally, he reached the end of the line to where the head foreman stood, neither of them acknowledged one another, instead turning their joint gazes to the magnitude in front of them. The long tunnel shimmered and glistened with gem stones, some which would never yet be discovered on mortal soil. If Mandos tilted his head just right, a cool breeze could brush his upturned features with a gentle touch that made the lord of Mandos giggle with delight. He clapped his hands together, making a harsh sound that called all to attention and echoed around the passage of the dead like so much resounding applause.

'It is done my children, ready yourselves for our journey.'

Cheers and cries of joy erupted around the stony Valar, as his subjects celebrated their success. He paid them no mind, no, the lord of the dead was perfectly content to stand there, in the middle of the revelry, stiller now then the very dead themselves.

So soon, so soon and he would be gone and not a soul was going to stop him this time.


	9. Chapter 9: Nightmares in the Dark

_The Fire's come for you again, just like it always does in these dreams, only this time it doesn't look like fire, looks like water or smoke or air. Almost like it can't make up its mind what to look like, you prefer the dreams where it sticks to being fire._

_It's decided it wants to be water today and you want to scream but you can't, the foul water is already filling your throat and your lungs. You can barely breath let along speak, so how are you supposed to scream?_

_The Water has begun whispering again. You think it might be talking to you but seeing as how you don't speak any sort of Elvish, you have no real way of telling. You feel something cold and black wrap around your belly, you think they may be chains like the sort you saw hanging unused down at the Shirriff office. You're not sure, but right now you don't really care because you know what part of the dream comes next._

_It's the light that really scares you now, after so many dreams like this you've become desensitised to the other dangers around you, but the light well…the light always burns. _

_You believe it might be trying to talk to you as well, but you've been down here too long by this point and you can't hear it over the screaming in your head anymore. Your body's gone numb by now, just like it always does round this part of the dream. It's not yours no more, not your body anyway but it makes a pretty picture as a cage for your mind. The light's still talking to you, but it doesn't really matter 'because you can't understand one-word outta its mouth._

_You'd say it sounds a bit like some of those old poems Mister Bilbo reads you sometimes, though different, older and more unnerving. As if you just sat there and listened, you'd hear the forging of the worlds hidden between the glowing orb's soft vowels and gentle words. The language sweeps over you like always and you find the world growing dark, your vision failing and your surroundings growing blurred. You know what's coming now, you've known it since the start but that doesn't make it any less painful. That doesn't make the knife any less terrifying when it plunges into your gut, or your blood any less vile as it spatters across your frozen face_. Or your bed any less wet through when you wake up screaming_._

Sam Gamgee bundled his sodden bed sheets up into the washing basket, he'd been lucky … no one had been woken by his screaming this time.

The Shire, Number 3 Bagshot Row; T.A. 2989, S.R. 1389; February 5th

Hamfast Gamgee was not having a particularly _good _morning; Sam-Lad had been up and about in the night again. Though the boy had attempted to hide it, Ham had caught on quick when he found the lad snoozing on his, now quite bare mattress – wrapped in naught but a thin wool blanket. The only covering that hadn't been completely soaked after the lad's dreams had turned sour and the child had been too afraid of punishment to risk finding more, even for his own comfort.

The tired hobbit had nudged the distraught boy awake and helped him into some dry clothes. Then they'd both set about the task of remaking Sam-Lad's bed before the others could be woken by the sound of his soft crying. Bell had had one of her fits last week, a pretty bad one at that, and she was still recovering – she needed her sleep. The two hobbits made quick work of the small bed and then retreated into the kitchen when the sounds of stirring from the other rooms caught their ears.

Bell was getting worse, Ham mused as he stirred the large porridge pot over the fire, this had been the fifth fit in almost a month and they were getting more and more disturbing each time they happened. She'd been spitting and cursing his name during the last one, they'd had to call healers just to stop her from hurting herself… or anyone else.

'I think it's done, Da.' Hamfast jerked from his thoughts of his wife, and glanced down to his youngest son, who was now staring intently into the bubbling pot of goo. Ham grimaced when he stuck his pinkie into the gurgling depths and brought it to his mouth, it tasted of nothing but burnt oats. They should just throw it out, but Sam was already starting to get fidgety with hunger and truthfully Ham wasn't far behind him. So, sighing inwardly he motioned for Sam-lad and young Marigold, who'd appeared like a ghost from her bedroom sometime after Ham had turned his back, to bring their bowls forward. Even _burnt porridge_ in their bellies was better than nothing at all.

Two hours later

For as long as Hamfast could remember he had been… well…. I suppose the only way to describe it is to give it its proper title…he had been a Ganyman. For those of you not of a Hobbit nature I will describe, to the best of my ability, exactly what that is. For those of you who _are_ I will assume, that unless your education was extremely limited regarding your cultural identity, that you already know.

To put it in the simplest of terms, the Ganyman (or Ganymen as is the plural) is the bridge between life and death. Or rather between the living and the departed. They are the givers of the last tale and are able, if truly needed, to cut the string that ties a soul to this earthly plain.

It is said, by some of the more superstitious folk, that when a Ganyman is about to be born a crow will fly into their mother's birthing chamber and circle the room until the baby is born. Then the bird will land… dead …at the infant's feet. It was of course complete nonsense, not least because birthing chambers as a rule were kept tightly sealed from all outwardly distractions. Which would include open windows and birds flying about the place, as any hobbit midwife or healer with a lick of sense could tell you. And while it was true that some of the skills needed to be a proper Ganyman were innate from birth, it still required a great deal of training to probably harness them. And not every babe born with a psychic gift was going to be _up_ to be a Ganyman, even if they had a strong connection to the other side.

For Ganymen were at their hearts… storytellers.

Which brings us to the core of the matter, the reason for the Ganymen's entire existence as a people: The Last Tale. Legend goes that if the last words a hobbit ever speaks in this waking world is their deepest secret, then they'll live on through the telling of its _tale _and thus their soul will not fade into nothingness. It was an ancient hobbit custom set down in the days before days. Before the wandering years, before Mirkwood, before the three clans, before Mother Magda and her Blarney Son, even before hobbits knew they were hobbits. Some say it was a tradition started by the ancestors, the ones who came before. But no one could say for certain, because strictly speaking no one - except perhaps the Ganymen themselves - could even say _what_ the ancestors were, they simply lived too long ago.

Times back a Ganyman would be called to every hobbit's deathbed, rich or poor, cruel or gentle, but in later years they'd fallen out of favour…among the gentlefolk anyway. After Bullroarer Took's famous last words of 'I don't need a Ganyman to tell my stories', the powerful family had dropped the age-old tradition as if it was so much childish nonsense. And whether they wanted to admit it or not, wherever the Tooks lead the other well-to-do families would follow. Which was why the message from Mistress Proudfoot was so very strange, by rights the Proudfoots weren't the richest of families, but they were still well off enough to call themselves gentlefolk.

But now wasn't the time to worry about such oddities, right now Ham had a duty to a hobbit on his deathbed.

He'd debated leaving Sam-lad and Little Marigold at home, but eventually decided against it. Even if they never developed a call to it, which considering Bell's once grounded nature was more than likely, it was still good for a youngin' too see Gany-work at least once in their lives, without the fog of loss and grief getting in the way.

The Proudfoots' smial – for no self-respecting gentlefolk would live in anything else – while undoubtedly fine as smials go, was not half so grand as Bagend. The lamps were already lit inside the round windows when the three of them reached it and Ham knocked tentatively on the large red door, his Ganyman Staff clutched tightly to his breast. The round door creaked open and a large weathered face poked out, frowning at them over its long-crooked nose.

'Yes?'

Ham steeled his shoulders, not in a mood to be waylaid from his duty and the dying hobbit inside by disapproving relatives

'I'm the Ganyman, the Mistress of this house called for me…please let me in.' The old hobbit snorted but moved back just enough for the trio to squeeze past. Once inside Hamfast's eyes by passed the specifics of his surroundings, and instead landed directly on the door farthest to the right. He felt the familiar tug in the middle of his chest, and knew where his charge lay.

One hour later

By the time Hamfast had arrived at the dying hobbit's bed, the patient was already in the middle of his death-throws; so, it hadn't been the easiest of Last Tales to acquire…but then again, his patient this time was still _technically living_, so it hadn't exactly been the hardest either.

The Hysterical soon-to-be-widow shrieking at his side hadn't made the situation any simpler. He needed quiet to work, and he needed it now – unfortunately that meant he had to be a bit callous. He hadn't _exactly _thrown the grieving Mistress out of her husband's death-chamber, but his _suggestion _had been strong enough to mistake it for so.

Once she'd removed herself from the chamber, black streaks of makeup blotching her cheeks and a half-chocked sob concealed within her throat, Hamfast had been able to get down to work at last. If this was an ordinary run-of-the-mill _Last Tale _then right about then Hamfast would have been restraining the patient's arms, he might have even let her stay to watch, but something deep in his gut told him this had to be done _now. _

Climbing up onto the bed, Hamfast straddled the old hobbit, pinning him down firmly onto the mattress with his own quite sizable weight. The Ganyman's fingertips pressed into the old hobbit's temple, and the death throws seem to still and freeze in place. It was said that the final words of a hobbit were his Last Tale, but of course, as any good Ganyman knew, words didn't have to be spoken out loud. Which was a good thing, when the patient was a far gone as old Proudfoot was.

The Tale floated through Proudfoot's dementia-addled mind and into the Ganyman's. Hamfast saw each detail as it happened, as if he were in the story, living it right here and there. What seemed like years, decades even, to the two hobbits on the bed was barely a minute in the world beyond and with a cry like a wounded Eagle, Ham flopped backwards off the bed and began to sob.

When a Hobbit soul gives up its Last Tale, it moves on to the world beyond, into the Ancestor's Caverns, where not even a Ganyman can properly enter. Leaving not but a whisper of its past self to continue through the story that the Ganyman will tell, but Faldo Proudfoot…did not do that.

Oh, he gave up his Last Tale to the Ganyman, every horrifying bit of it, but as for moving onto the world beyond…well…that he did not do. Or at least so it would appear to the still gasping Ganyman now lying on the old hobbit's floor. For you see…Faldo Proudfoot's body was still very much breathing when Hamfast Gamgee shakily climbed to his feet.

Hamfast could have been_ sure_ that Proudfoot's spirit had passed over. Nay he _was _sure, he'd felt the body go limp with the spirit's absence _himself_. Yet Proudfoot was undeniably alive, of that little the Ganyman could be certain of. Laying his hand on the withered chest, Hamfast spoke in soft low voice.

'Master Proudfoot? Are you there, Master Proudfoot? You've given me your Last Tale you can move on now; you won't be forgotten while I breathe good master, I can promise you that.'

As the Ganyman spoke the old master's chest shook in an unrhythmic fashion, it was as if something was forcing the old chest to move up and down against its will. Suddenly Faldo Proudfoot's hand lashed out and struck the Ganyman where he knelt by the bed, sending the other hobbit careening across the floor and smack right into the adjoining wall. And as Ganyman Gamgee began to slip into unconsciousness, his eyes beheld the horrific sight of Faldo Proudfoot's body, standing up from his death-bed and walking out the door.

Middle-Earth, South Lands (or The Dark Land to the heathens of the West), The Yellow Mountains: T.A. 2989

It is a strange land the Great Wizard has led them to, not cold or boiling as the rumours had led them to believe – but strange none the less. The whole place feels…calm, as no mountain should. For mountains, whether their bellies be filled with fire or not, are grand monuments to the gods. Left here by the giants that had made them, or at least that was what Akunosh's nursemaid had always told him when she was tucking him into bed at night. But then the Nursemaid had been of the lower classes; his father, a man of wealth and education, might have said something different. Akunosh didn't know, but all the same he couldn't help the feeling of disappointment as he climbed the steady slopes of the Yellow Mountain. There was nothing particular awe-inspiring about sun-bleached rocks, or scrabbly blades of grass and for a boy of fifteen – who had joined the Blue Wizard's cause to seek adventure, that was a terrible blow indeed.

Still, seeing a Silmaril might make up for it. He hoped anyway, he'd never seen one before, so it wasn't like he had anything to base it on. For all Akunosh knew it could be just as dull as the mountain… and that was the moment when they saw the body.

Small, but clearly not a child – the thing had been wrapped up in a multi-coloured shawl and then just left out on the rocks. Probably for more than a couple of days giving the smell of the thing. More than a few of the younger recruits hurried away from the sight; and even a couple of the older soldiers screwed up their noses. But Akunosh stopped by the body and let himself fall behind. Then, when he was entirely certain that no one was looking at him, he knelt by the strangely wrapped thing and stared at her face.

She was old, her shrived face, raisin like to look upon, baked by the sun now scorching his back. Slowly he pushed back the shawl from her face, her hair was still black even despite her clear age…but it was not that that Akunosh stared at, it was her ears. They were small like the rest of her, small and …pointed, he'd never seen such strange ears before, they weren't the ears of men.

His Nurse had told him many stories as she tucked him into bed at night, but always his favourite had been the stories of the Halflings. Small creatures who belonged to no god of the west – sometimes in the tales they were kind, and helped travellers when they were lost; but other times they were wicked. Tricking the big Folks into wondering off the path and drowning, but whatever they were, friend or foe, good or evil, they had always captivated Akunosh. And they were here, they were real…and they were the people they had been sent to slay.

Up the mountain he could already hear the screams, and felt himself begin to shake.


	10. Chapter 10: The ghosts of Dunland

Arda, Middle-Earth, Dunland, East of the River Glanduin; T.A. 2990

Dunland – as it is known to the Horse lords – was a cold and desolate wasteland. Few could thrive on the barren foothills that made up the home of the 'Dunlanders', and life was not _easy _for those that did not wither under the harsh and biting winds of this 'Dunland'. None were aware of this more so than the sheep herders of the northernmost tip of this hard, wild land.

It had been a long winter, longer than most, and the usual grazing grounds had all but withered away under the frost. They'd been making their way slowly along the west side of the Great River, being careful not to let the smaller members of the tribe fall over the side, lest they be swept away over the cliff to the lowlands below. They had been travelling for the better part of a month with no end in sight, and some of their older members were beginning to tire and stumble. They'd have to find somewhere safe to rest for the night, for they could not remain in the open… not after dark.

They _had _sent scouts ahead for just such a purpose, but that had been a good hour ago and there was still no sign of their return. The Elder of the Tribe had made his decision, they couldn't linger in this place anymore, they would have to leave the two scouts behind to fend for themselves. There were many who would have trouble defending themselves here in _full _light, it would be akin to a slaughter in anything less.

'We move on! Up now! We stop for no one until we're under cover!' He yelled, aware that he and many like him may fall on the tribe's forced march. Yet it couldn't be helped, the concern must be on the young, for they were the future, and their land was not kind to those who forgot that.

'Wait! Stop! Stop!'

Packs were dropped in shock and a young ewe skittered away from her master, plunged into the river and was swept away over the falls before anyone could so much as scream. A girl was barrelling out of the sparse trees surrounding the temporary camp, it was one of the scouts that had been sent on ahead, she was panting, a mad look in her eyes… and she was covered in blood.

One hour ago

'Now listen closely since time is short, and darkness grows with each second we waste.'

The old man said, _ironically_ slowly, to the two scouts.

'It doesn't have to be big, even the hollow of a rock will do if you can find nothing else, but it must hide us from view once night falls.'

Mab and her brother nodded, it wasn't like this was something new to them – sheep needed grazing and lately you practically had to take the whole tribe and armoury with you if you wanted them back safely. Caves and sheltered glades had been easy to find even for the unskilled eye so far but, their land was not a kind lady and good luck always had to end sometime.

They left camp in good time, carrying little more than a water skin and a hunting knife between the two of them, since they didn't expect to be away long. This part of the land had no end to small rocky crevices and caves that could be huddled in when the need arose. That is if you knew where to look, which Mab's brother was confident he did.

As they moved further into the strange tightly packed wood though, Mab grew _less _confident.

'_Llue.' _She hissed some part of her telling her that she should keep her voice down, if she dared to speak at all in a place like this. Ahead of her Llue crouched on a large over-hanging rock, he didn't seem to have heard her at first, but then his ear twitched in an unsettling way, and he snapped his head back to glare.

'_What?' _

His voice was equally low and if Mab had not drawn closer, she wouldn't have heard him at all.

'There's something wrong with these woods, why are there so many trees this far north? They don't even look like hardy stock, they're thin things that should have been ripped from the ground the first storm that hit 'em. Yet here they stand packed like a wall around us, and there's something else, I can't explain it, but it doesn't feel _natural.' _

As she spoke Mab tried to get closer to her brother, who seemed to be ignoring her entirely. She scrambled up the rock face, which proved to be as smooth and slippery as ice, but he leaped from his perch just before she could reach him. Mab had to suppress a snarl or worse yet a scream, the feeling of wrongness was still around her and she had half a mind to turn back now and leave the stupid fool to his fate. But she'd been given a duty and she was going to do it, whether her brother was willing to heed her or not.

The drop from the large rock was steeper than anticipated, and the girl had had to fall into a roll to keep from breaking her neck. Even then her wrist twisted in a strange angle and cracked like the snap of a stick under a man's boot.

Mab sat up as best she could, and cradling her wrist to her chest looked about her for any sign of her brother. There was little at first, yet something caught her eye – sharp and dull grey, barely visible in a cluster of fallen leaves…it was his hunting knife. Struggling to her feet Mab stumbled more than once in her haste to get to the small object. Yet finally she reached it and with her good hand she scooped it up and stood there, longer than was probably wise, just staring at it in wonder. Llue would never have run off without it, it was the best hunting knife in the tribe…why a man could kill for a knife like this…so why leave it behind to be forgotten in a pile of leaves?

Even if something terrible had happened…even if robbers and the men from other tribes had come across her brother lying motionless at the bottom of the rock, they'd have taken the knife...they'd have always taken the knife. Yet if it were a beast…would they have really taken the body, left nothing behind…not even the bloody tracks back to their lair? So, what…what could be so terrible in itself…that it wouldn't need a knife like this?

Her brother could be dead just by the fall, it was the risk all scouts took in a place like this, but…but where was the body? He could be…he could be alive, screaming and in danger from something…something truly terrible but then if that were so…why had she not heard him? Why had she not come tumbling over the rock to the sound of his screams? She had to get back, warn the tribe that there was…well that was the stupid part, she didn't even know…the only thing her brother had left behind was the hunting knife and anyway, she couldn't get back up the rock even if she tried.

The drop from the rock had indeed been a steep one, and it was as smooth from this side as it had been from the last. There was no hope of her climbing back up it even if she hadn't had a twisted wrist; she'd have to go on, and if her brother was out there…alive and well, playing some stupid joke on her again, well he'd need his knife back wouldn't he?

Half an hour later

Mab could have sworn there were more trees than when she had last looked, as if they were being born from the shadows ever growing longer around her. She was not quite sure how long she'd been following her brother's trail, what little there was of it. In fact, she was not all together certain that it _was_ her _brother's trail_. _Someone_ had been here, of that there was ample evidence: snapped twigs, dented leaves, the general air of disruption someone in a hurry leaves in their wake, but there was nothing solid to say it was necessarily Llue or his captor. She could only move forward on the _assumption_ that it was.

Something caught her foot and she was sent tumbling forward and landing on her already dented wrist she could do nothing but scream. The pain that had thus far dulled to a low throb filled her mind and she could see nothing but the blood that now swelled out of the hideously swollen thing. In the distance, she could hear birds, wicked crows of wicked people in high stone towers – her mother had once told her. Never let them catch a glimpse of you, the dead woman had said, lest they spirit you away for dark deeds in darker places. Overtaken by that same childlike fear that had caused her to seek her parents furs all those years ago, Mab grabbled to her knees and crawled. She didn't know where she was going, just anywhere to be a way from that terrible noise, anywhere where the wicked birds wouldn't find her. She bit down on her lip till it bled to keep from screaming, and she closed her eyes tight.

As she crawled, the blood from her lip swelling every time she had to put her twisted hand down, the ground beneath her seemed to change. Going from soft forest floor, leaves crunching underneath her hands… to something hard and cold. She could no longer hear the cries of the wicked birds anymore, so she risked opening her eyes. Darkness surrounded her; deeper than even the tightest packed forest could offer.

Mab's heart began to flutter and before she could stop herself, she cried out again, not in pain this time but panic. How long had she been crawling blind? Because wherever her path had taken her one thing was certain, it was no longer daylight.

The young scout sat back on her haunches and stared up into the night sky. Stars had always mystified her when she was a child, how could they be so far up high and yet not fall? Did they have some greater purpose other than helping lost scouts find their way home? Maybe, maybe not, she supposed she never would find out now either way, still they were such pretty things. Like that big one in the middle that all the others seemed to spiral out from, she had never seen it's like before in the sky. It was large and sharp like a dagger and it was growing bigger…and bigger…and bigger. Before she could fully comprehend her situation, she was grabbed from behind and shoved against a wall. Only the harsh sound of her brother's voice hissing at her to 'stay the fuck where you are' stilled her and she found herself holding her breath. The light from the star was growing brighter by the second, and Mab raised her eyes up past her brother's shoulder to where it and its smaller kin shone above their heads. They no longer seemed like stars anymore, they no longer seemed like light anymore; they were holes, holes in the sky, and…and they were dripping…not water, or even the sharp smell of a bat's piss…it was something else. Something far fouler than that…those holes, those holes in the sky were dripping blood.

'Close your eyes,' said Llue, his voice broken and shallow, as if he could…as he could barely breath from the smell of it. 'Don't look at it Mab, don't look at it and it can't hurt ye…they're nothing but ghosts. Don't look at 'em and they can't hurt yer.'

But it was a lie, and Mab couldn't look away as before her the blood stopped dripping from those holes in the sky and began to pour, and pour and pour, till the very air around them was swimming with their bloody tears of grief.

They were screaming, the stars were screaming, the night was screaming, her brother was screaming, Mab was screaming. Yes, they were all screaming, but what was most amazing of all was, the _blood _was screaming.

_Present_

After her tale had finished, the girl collapsed to the ground, breathing raggedly, the ending to her story spluttering into a confusing babble of sobs and gibberish. The Elder motioned for one of the stronger members of the tribe to come forward and deal with this. The large man bent and lifted the girl looking again to the Elder for direction.

'If what she says is true then we must flee. Carry her for now; once she is rested and calmer, she may be able to tell us what became of her brother. For now, though, we must leave this place.' He turned and addressed the rest of the tribe. 'Carry your children, for we stop for no man, woman or child that may fall behind. Remember, the good of the many outweighs the good of the few.' And with those closing words they began to flee.

_From behind the safety of the trees The Ghost watched all this with dull eyes, Men were such strange creatures. Before, in the dark place, they seemed more an abstract concept then an actual living breathing race of people. For Men did not go to the dark place, Men went on to somewhere else, some were better. He could have hated them for that. Yet, bitterness of such things was ridiculous now that they were rid of the dark place._

_Turning back from the mouth of the wood, he glided towards the cluster of his subjects. They may no longer have their physical forms, appearing in this world merely as wisps and shades, terrors in the night, but his duty to them was still as clear and unfinished as it had ever been before. They parted in his wake and soon he was back at the lip of the cave that housed their escape, their tunnel to freedom, at least in the physical world. _

_The boy's body lay sprawled across the cave's floor, he'd drowned in the Ghost's blood, his people's blood. It wasn't supposed to be like this, he'd hoped they could all arrive on the other side as they had been in their old realm, but it hadn't happened like that. As they'd moved through the tunnel, their old forms had melted away until only the blood remained. Once they left the mouth of the tunnel, they became what they are now, slivers of beings hardly daring to exist at all in a world like this. He owed them more than that existence; he owed them so much more than that._

_He had not meant to kill the boy and he was almost relieved the girl had escaped, though he could sense there would be trouble from that in the future. Still perhaps the boy's death was not in vain. Reaching down the Ghost touched the young man's face, and his ghostly hands began to sink into the boy's flesh. Yes, perhaps the boy's death had not been in vain, and he would return solid form back to his people, one ghost at a time._

The Lord of the Dead opened his new eyes, and blinked up at the world.


	11. Chapter 11: The Halffoot Case

Arda, Middle-Earth, the Shire, Proudfoot Smial: T.A 2989, S.R. 1389; February 5th

To say Hamfast shook as he peeled himself up from that bedroom floor, was like saying a leaf trembled in the wind. Of course, he shook, of course he trembled all over, the thoroughly dead hobbit, Faldo Proudfoot, had gotten up from his death-bed, thrown Hamfast into the opposing wall, and walked right out that door. That door that lead to the rest of the Smial…that door that lead to Hamfast's children.

The Ganyman's steps were uneven and wide as he half-ran, half-stumbled down that too long hallway. When he at long last emerged back into the foyer, the door was in his sights again, but there was no sign of his children.

'Sam! Marigold! Sam-lad! Little Lass!'

From the direction of what was most likely the kitchen Hamfast could hear the children's laughter, and the giggling of an adult. He almost tripped over his own feet trying to get there, and he most certainly damaged that kitchen door's hinges, slamming it open as hard as he did.

Around the table sat Samwise and Marigold, absolutely covered…in chocolate. Behind them, her back turned to the room in general, stood Mistress Proudfoot; humming something gentle and soothing, as she stirred a saucepan with the strong smell of more chocolate…or maybe that was just his children again.

So there Hamfast Gamgee, 12th generation Ganyman, and famed Gardener of Bag-End, stood; in that doorway, staring at the rather mundane scene before him. He wasn't sure whether it was relief or shock that kept him rooted to that spot, where perhaps he would have stayed for rest of time, if Mistress Proudfoot hadn't turned around.

'Oh, Master Gamgee, I didn't see you there. You quite gave me a fright…I hope you don't mind about the cookies…but the little mites just looked so lost and confused standing there in the middle of the foyer. And baking has always saved to calm my nerves…my husband…is … is he at rest now?'

Hamfast just stood there, unsure of what to say to that. Had… had he imagined all that had occurred, it did not seem likely…but then neither did a hobbit walking off from his death-bed.

'Err…you perhaps haven't seen…that is to say, Mistress…has…has anyone else gone through here before me?'

Arda, Middle-Earth, The Shire, just south of the Brandywine river: T.A. 2990, February 12th

It was a fact known well to the residents of the Shire that the Shirriffs were a bit useless. Oh, they could find your missing cow, or sheep, and they were genuinely good at meandering down a stout path throwing suspicious glances this way and that. But when it came to anything harder, they were quite at a loss for what to do. So, you can imagine their reaction when they got the call about…the body.

The girl, for she could be little more than fifteen, had been found just south of the Brandywine River; and judging by the decay that had set in on her rather beautiful face, she'd been there for quite some time. Or so said the official reports, but of course there were always those rumours. The tall-tales that speculated that it hadn't been rot that had eaten away at the girl's face at all, but teeth – and not the teeth of a beast either. But such speculations are best left to the history books to ponder.

It had taken the farmer that had found her more than thirty minutes to dredge her up, for someone had tied lead weights to her ankles. He'd had to damn near hack the ankles off, the ropes were sunk so deeply into the skin. When the Shirriffs had arrived on the scene it had taken more than half an hour to calm the poor fellow down, and the other half to calm themselves down enough to approach the body without throwing up.

Truth be told even if they had been the best at what they did, they still would have been out of their depth on a case like this. Things like this just didn't happen in the Shire; crime in general wasn't that big of a deal in the rolling hillside country. You got the occasional pick-pocket or domestic dispute, but hobbits in general just didn't have it in them to commit violent acts against one another, certainly not… well... whatever this was. Even now, standing over the mangled body of the girl, the Shirriffs still shied away from the word no one wanted to say.

In fact, if it weren't for the lead weights – two cow dumbbells, probably from a nearby farm – secured around the girl's ankles, they would have written it off as some freak accident or, less preferably, a suicide. Anything would have been better than what it probably actually was: murder.

***  
Arda, Middle-Earth, the Shire, Michel Delving, Shirriff Station: T.A. 2990, February 12th, 2 o'clock in the afternoon

The Mayor of Michel Delving stared hard at the tired Shirriff before him. Technically speaking as the Mayor, he was officially head of the Shirriff department, but he'd never felt comfortable wearing that title. There was just something…un-hobbit like about the whole business; he'd never quite understood the sort of hobbit that would willingly subject themselves to that sort of lifestyle. Sure, you generally drank free at most reputable drinking establishments, but it still hardly seemed worth it, when the fisticuffs started flying and you suddenly found yourself at the hard end of a bar stool.

Of course, the chair was preferable to what the Mayor was looking at now, quite frankly anything was preferable to what the Mayor was looking at now. It had been a terrible thing to lug all the way down from the Brandywine. The girl, whoever she'd been, wasn't particularly heavy so the weight hadn't been the problem, but they'd been mobbed almost the minute they left the farm. People wanted to know what had happened, but the on-call Shirriffs had kept silent all the way through the crowd surrounding the station. If there was any chance this wasn't what they thought it was, then the panic it would cause would be all for nothing.

As hard as they'd tried though, it hadn't taken long for some loud mouth rookie to let it slip. The riots started almost immediately, this wasn't supposed to happen, the crowd seemed to cry. Maybe in a seedy place like Bree or out in the wild but not here, not in the Shire. Yet for all intents and purposes that's exactly what happened. Once they'd finally managed to get the girl's corpse past the throngs of the vibrating crowd and safely into the station; the Shirriffs' investigation, what little they were capable of, had truly begun. They'd still been unable to identify her yet, for that they'd have to have call in members of the public and considering the state of the mob surrounding their headquarters, they were understandably jumpy about letting anyone without some form of official identification onto the premises. But they'd managed to identify the cause of death with little to no problem, the marks around her mouth and throat weren't really that hard to find. If they hadn't been so distracted, they probably could have found them at the murder sight itself.

Mayor Taft's heart sank at the news. There was no weaselling out of this one. There'd been a murder in the Shire and most likely everyone in the Shire knew that by now. Someone would have to be brought to justice, and his stomach twisted trying to imagine just who that would be.

'It'd be far easier to figure out who killed her or why, if we actually knew who she was, Mister Mayor Sir.'

Mayor Hilbert Taft was not a hobbit known for his quick temper and harsh words, quite the opposite in fact, but right now he was very close to losing his temper. He may not have been the brightest hobbit in all the Shire, but he resented being talked down to by some upstart Shirriff, like he was still a mud covered fauntling. So, when he spoke next his words held more than the faintest tint of venom to them.

'No, Shirriff Brandybuck, surely not… why I thought we could just follow the sight of your large head to the answer. Why surely with its luminescent glow not even the darkest corners of this gentle land will be hidden from our view.' Startled by the aged hobbit's sharp tone the younger hobbit's head snapped back, and he levelled a concerned gaze at the mayor.

'Sir, I didn't mean to offend or insinuate…' but he was stopped halfway through his stumbling apology by the mayor's hand.

'Then perhaps next time lad, you'll think before you open that large Brandybuck mouth of yours, hmm, now won't you?' A sharp nod of the head from the young Shirriff. 'Excellent then, run off now and send in Bottleneck, he's proven a good head on those absurdly large shoulders of his. Off with you now before I lose my temper in earnest.'

The young hobbit made quick his escape, almost slamming into Shirriff Bottleneck as he made his way up from the evidence room.

'Well I'm sure that was necessary wasn't it, Bert.' Laughed Bottleneck, in his nasal fashion.

The Mayor tried to ignore the Shirriff's sardonic tone, but Bottleneck would not be silenced so easily. 'You may have not liked it pointed out to you Bert, but the lad was right, we've got to identify the girl and we've got to do it now. Before the mob outside takes it into their thick heads to storm the place and do it themselves.'

Hilbert slammed his knuckles down hard on his desk, crying out in shock from the resulting pain of the action. Cradling his bloody fist against his chest, Taft turned on Bottleneck with hatred in his eyes.

'I know what you're going to say Bottleneck, so I'll give my final answer to anyone who's fool enough to bring it up within or out of my earshot: we're are not bringing members of the public into the station. Even to identify a body, it's just too dangerous…mob mentality won't be quelled by submission Shirriff, you should know that.'

The Shirriff's face contorted.

'If I didn't know better, I'd say you don't actually want this girl identified.'

Taft flopped back down into the plush chair behind his ornate desk and flashed a sharp sneer at the Shirriff before him. 'Well it's lucky you do know better then, isn't it?'

'Yes sir. How would you like us to proceed with the investigation?' Bottleneck continued listlessly. Taft's lips pursed as he thought, and for a time the two hobbits remained like that, one sitting, and the other standing still as the very stone the building was built with, wishing to be anywhere but in a place like this. At last though, after what felt like decades, the Mayor finally came to a decision.

'The hair…' The Shirriff blinked down at the older hobbit in confusion.

'Sir? I don't under…'

'The girl's hair…it was red, wasn't it?' A sharp nod from the befuddled hobbit above him and the Mayor was off again. 'Right… right, well not too common a hair colour in these parts now is it. Odds are someone with red hair is going to have a connection with the victim.'

Biting down hard on his tongue Bottleneck swallowed back down his laughter, and any protests that might have crossed his lips.

'Yes sir, we'll get right on that, sir.'

The mayor nodded satisfied that the matter at least for today, was at a close.

'Very good, well go on then…get right on that will you and stop cluttering up this office with your benign presence.' And with a sharp nod, the Shirriff did just that.

Middle-earth, The Shire, Hard-bottle; T.A. 2990, February 14th

Oswalf Halffoot was a handyman, that was the simplest way to describe what he did for a living. Strictly speaking he'd never actually been called a 'handy-man' before in his life. He mostly got by, by doing odd jobs, things that other more well-paid 'handymen' refused to do. If he had any pride his mother had once said, he'd refuse to do such things too, but he had a wife, two faunts and a third one on the way back in Hard-bottle, and pride didn't keep a roof over your head.

Which was why he was here, waiting for the hobbit who had insisted on paying him under the table…or bridge as it turned out. They'd agreed to meet under one just a little past midnight, but that had been an hour ago. Really, he should just go home…go get some sleep. His benefactor had obviously backed out of the deal…and yet he couldn't go home without the money and meet his wife's eyes. He had to stay…at least for another hour…just to make sure the deal was off. His feet were cold, his fingers felt like they were about to drop off from frostbite and he was pretty sure the very water in his eyes had frozen solid. But all that fled his mind as soon as he saw the grand looking hobbit come marching up over the grassy verge.

Oswalf had seen his new employer maybe once or twice before today, and never as close as they were now. The gentlehobbit was a dandy and no mistake, as his wife was wont to say; rose tinted waistcoat and plush jacket barely encasing the round pot-belly that any hobbit of proper substance ought to have. But his voice was as hard and as rough as the gravel they stood upon.

'Halffoot.'

'Sir.'

'I suppose you've heard the news, haven't you Halffoot?' The gentlehobbit fiddled with the cravat around his throat as he talked, a nervous habit Oswalf guessed. His mother in law had developed a similar one, only her's involved whacking him on the head with her walking stick whenever he entered the room.

'No sir can't say I have, the Little'un had a fever, I haven't been out of the house all week…why has something big happened?'

A smile tugged at the corners of the older hobbit's thin mouth.

'I suppose so… but that hardly matters to these proceedings…now, do you have everything we discussed?' Oswalf nodded and handed the satchel over, it was soaked through from the trip he'd had to take through the river to get to this place.

'Hope they all still work, normally they wouldn't being what they are, but my brother in law makes up a special batch right there. Nothing and I do mean nothing gets into those, especially not water.' The other hobbit grunted in approval as he studied the sack's contents with an expert's eye.

'Yes, these should do for our purpose just fine…'

Oswalf began to twitch slightly as the silence that followed the statement seemed to consume any sound that tried to break it, until Oswalf couldn't even hear the birds chatter in the trees south of the river bank. It grew to such an uncomfortable level that Halffoot had to fill it with something, anything, even the white noise of a scream would be better than this.

'I followed your instruction on how to get here, but what I don't understand, you see, is…well, why'd I have to wade through a river when there's a perfectly fine dirt road down yonder way? And you wouldn't run the risk of getting your materials wet and damaged as much…if you get my drift, sir.'

The other hobbit failed to give a response to that, or at least failed to give a verbal response. Instead his eyes rose to meet Oswalf's and there was something in them, something…un-hobbit like. Oswalf's feet moved backwards, desperate to get away from any creature who could give a stare like that. But the gentlehobbit wasn't done with him yet.

'You'll be waiting at your house at the time I specified, is that agreeable to you?' Oswalf nodded just hoping he could bring this uncomfortable conversation to a close.

'Excellent… well I believe that concludes our business for tonight, please do give your good wife my best, will you?' Oswalf nodded dumbly as his rich benefactor turned on his heels and climbed back into the carriage that had been waiting for him, just off the beaten road.

Oswalf Halffoot felt his feet give out from under him, and like so often happened these days found himself down in the dirt and muck, all alone.

***  
Early next morning

Oswalf and Daisy Halffoot's door was kicked in at a little past seven. And if the young mother hadn't gathered her children into the kitchen to dish out what little breakfast they could afford, it may very well have crushed one of them – the swarm of Shirriffs very nearly did anyway.

Oswalf was dragged out of the back of the dry dirt hobbit-hole, where he had been still sleeping on the paper-thin mattress that made up the couple's bed. Daisy Halffoot screamed and clutched her two children tightly to her breast, as the arresting officers clapped a pair of irons on her befuddled and still half-asleep husband.

'Mister Oswalf Bongo Halffoot, in the name of the people and the law of the Shire, I am arresting you under suspicion of murder. You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to legal representation, I must warn you that anything you say here will be held against you in a court of law.'

The last voice Daisy heard before they hustled her husband out onto the street was his own, rising clear and loud over the rumble of the Shirriffs surrounding him.

'Daisy, I love you…I need you to know, I love you.'

***  
News Reporters, a strange breed of hobbit that seemed to pop up not some ten years ago, crowded in closer to the podium as the Mayor made his speech. His voice was a booming rumble as per usual, but there was something different about this speech. For never, in one of old Taft's speeches had there been such an electric buzz through the air, not that there were many of them to draw comparison to. There'd been his inauguration speech of course, and then a couple about some harvest or other, but that had been about it. There really weren't that many things to make a speech about when you were Mayor of the Shire, if anything the Shire was a place to put off giving speeches.

'My good hobbits of this gentle land, a great travesty has struck us as we slept…there has been a murder among us.'

The crowd gave a collective gasp, they all knew this already of course, but it was the theatrics of the moment, tradition stated that somebody had to gasp.

'Yes, as hideous a thing as it is to even contemplate… a murder has indeed happened in the gentle hills of our dear Shire. This young girl, who we may never yet know her name, was snatched from us in the bloom of her youth. A tragedy, a true tragedy.' At this old Taft paused and shook his head as if contemplating what a true honest to gods tragedy it all was.

'But this crime was not only an evil act against an innocent girl of our native soil, but against all hobbits. From the Thain himself right down to those strange folks in Bree, we are all touched by this tragedy. So, with that in mind, it is with utmost relief and pride that I can announce that the Mayor's office and the brave lads and lasses of the Shirriff's station, have apprehended The Brandywine Killer!'

A loud cheer erupted from the surrounding crowd, which had grown greatly in size since the start of the Mayor's speech. Their cheers became even louder, deafeningly so, as the 'Brandywine Killer' was hauled up onto the stage in chains. Oswalf Halffoot stared determinedly down at his two red furry feet, his shock of red hair covering most of his face from the reporter's view.

'This hobbit….no this creature, for I daren't even use the name of our kind in the same sentence as this abomination, for fear that it'd be sullied by associated with this thing… this worker of evil…this child of Sauron!' The jeers of the crowed rose and Oswalf closed his eyes…waiting.

And then he didn't have to wait any longer.

The explosion took the Shirriff station, the Mayor's office and all the reporters that stood outside. For those very few who survived the blast and were still competent enough to recount it later in life, it was like the world froze still for that one brief second, and everything and everyone was encased in light. And then it all sped up, as if it were rushing to catch up with the rest of the world. Dust filled the air and choked out the last of the sun's rays, and in the distance a child screamed, and the world became darkness.

Middle-Earth, Rhûn, The Red Mountains, Holdfast of the Four Dwarven Clans: T.A. 2991

Fëanor lounged against his new throne or tried to anyway – the thing was not exactly made for an elf, or an elf in the body of a wizard to lounge upon. Bloody Dwarves, some craftsmen they were, couldn't even make a comfortable chair.

It had been annoying when they'd discovered that the small shepherd people, whose villages Fëanor's men had burned to the ground and made the mountain run red with their blood, had not had the Silmaril after all. Annoying enough for Fëanor to execute the seer who had directed him there in the first place. He'd almost done it to her daughter as well, before the young hag had had a vision right in front of hm, proclaiming that the Silmaril lurked in the home of the beloved of the Dwarven King. The only beloved thing to a dwarf of the modern age was itself, or it's jewels. And while Fëanor was certain that there were many dwarves in Middle-Earth, the only ones he knew of that lived in this land, dwelt within the plains of the Red Mountain. After all, there was little chance that the Blue thief had managed to spirit his treasure to the west, surely Fëanor would have sensed it.

So, like an obedient fool, Fëanor had followed the suspect seer's advice…and surprise, surprise, after a year long siege, which ended with Fëanor slicing the Four Red Kings – as they bizarrely called themselves – heads from their necks, Fëanor still lacked a single Silmaril.

Some of his more seasoned soldiers pulled the sobbing girl seer forward and threw her before Fëanor, where she landed like a dog on her hands and knees.

'So, many dead dwarves…so many dead dwarves…got myself a nice collection of heads…but no Silmaril. My dear girl, can you possibly explain why your vision failed? Or is lying to your Lord and King, just something that runs in your family's blood?  
'No, no my Lord,' weeps the girl. 'I swear, my vision was true – but I am unlearned in my natural craft, it takes a well-skilled seer to interpret the things she sees accurately and my mother never taught me…'

But she never did get to finish that sentence, for Fëanor had already given the nod to his executioner.

'Now,' said the Lord of the Mountains both Yellow and Red, as he looked out on the cowed and broken former lords of this holdfast. 'Look up at me, no, on second thought look up at them,' he said as he gestured upwards to the four heads that hung above Fëanor's uncomfortable throne. 'You've seen what happens to those that lie to me, and those that would defy me…so please do neither, I have a headache.'

Before his feet the blood-soaked wretches cringed.

'Now, tell me oh Dwarves of my new mountain…where are my Silmarils!'

This last part he bellowed so loud that one of the heads above his throne dropped from its hook and rolled across the floor until it met the dead body of the girl, and the broken Dwarves began to weep.

This only made Fëanor's headache worse.


	12. Chapter 12: Castle on the Hillock

Arda, Middle-Earth, Dunland, Dunlich Castle: T.A. 2991

Dunlanders, as they were known to the men of the West, did not often waste their time building structures of stone. Most of them lived the nomadic lifestyle of the sheep-herder or the insular one of the hunter, so a structure – if it was built at all, was more likely to be something you could pick up and carry with you. Every so often you got a prayer temple, or a hermitage pop up, but since the purpose of those was shelter for the truly devout, they tended to veer away from grand structures carved into granite. Most of them were made of little more than straw and dried mud, after all the gods didn't need earthly buildings to show _their_ might. However, there was always at least one exception to the rule.

Dunlich Castle would have been considered little more than a fort to the people of Gondor or Rohan, but it was both the largest and most long-lived structure in all Dunland. Situated atop the fortified hillock of Caomhán, the fort had an almost perfect viewpoint into the territories of the four major clans: The Bear Clan of the Ancient Moors, The Wolf Clan of the Hallowed Hills, The Onex Clan of the Baron Plains and of course The Mountain-Lion Clan of the Crystal Caverns. No one was entirely sure who had first built Dunlich Castle, it had just always seemed to be there, but it had been maintained almost devoutly by the clans and chieftains across the years. So, it stood now as neutral ground, a place where a clan could rest and tend to their most needy without fear of attack or betrayal from outside sources. Or as it was used now, a place where the chieftains of the many clans of Dunland could meet and discuss events that troubled them.

Rhys Ynis Dowyll, head of the Bear clan and unofficial spokesman for all nay-sayers in the land, sat now at the head of the chieftains' table. As the leader of the current largest clan in Dunland, Ynis Dowyll's voice held the greatest weight among those whose judgement counted. So, it was to him that Mab and the Elder of her tribe told their tale to, and as per usual, he was not in the least impressed.

'Tis a fair tale Elder, I'll give ye that much for fairness sake, but what credence can ye lend to it? The word of a girl no more than twelve, soaked in her own brother's blood? There's a fouler tale hidden here than you give voice to, good Clansman. How do we know the lass didn't go mad and stab the boy herself?'

Mab's already thinning patience snapped at that last remark.

'Twas not my brother's blood that covered me, sir! Twas was the blood of the slain!'

A hush fell over the collective clans crowded into the vast hall of Dunlich, and Rhys sat back in his high-backed chair, a fleeting look of trepidation crossing his stone like features, before the normal Dowyll scowl claimed its rightful place once again.

'Hmm…many a charlatan has _claimed _to be bathed in the blood of the slain, lass. There's no telling what they, or you for that matter, say is true or not. Many of our kin are born with a gift, but it takes more than a minor talent for clairvoyance to convince the likes of _me _you're so bathed girl. So, tell us, this high council of mighty chieftains…what powers has yet developed since thy _bathing'_

For a moment nothing happened, and Rhys Ynis Dowyll seemed unable to contain the sneer bursting forth across his face. And then…the high table burst into flames.

'Are thou impressed lord chief…or must I continue with greater feats…perhaps I should steal the air from thy lungs next? Or swell this castle with the tears of the widows you've sown across the lands? Would that be more fitting to your belief?'

One of the other chiefs, a boy no older than Mab's brother, his beard dyed as blue as the Grand River at the height of summer placed a hand on Rhys' shoulder; interrupting whatever torrent the hot-headed man was about to burst out with. He then spoke himself, with the strange words of the men of the Crystal Caverns. His voice barely more than a whisper, yet clearly heard from every corner of the hall.

'Aye, thoust has proven thy self so bathed. So now we must turn our een to the ither part of yer tale. Tell us mair of these spirits you heard wailing…were they Clan Men or were they something much fouler than that?'

Mab wrapped her arms around herself as she tried to remember the spirits, their wailing, their screams of pain as their blood had drenched her…as it had washed her away from a drowning brother's arms. Beneath her fingers the sheep-skin, felt warm and almost comforting. But she couldn't afford to let herself be distracted by such things, everything hung on what she said next, on what she could bring herself to say next.

'I didn't see their faces Chief, but I heard them well enough, and those weren't the voices of Men. They felt…older…as if they'd been there, in the world that is, before our Ancestors even took their first breath.'

The Man's face grew pinched at that, and a rumble of muttering spread throughout the hall. Mab felt her stomach constrict and she grabbed blindingly for her Elder's hand, as the rumble grew to a deafening roar.

'Silence!'

The blue-haired chief had stood up and bellowed like he could control the very wind itself; the still flickering flames of the table had illuminated one half of his face, casting the other into complete shadow…so Mab could well believe it so.

'This is a day we have long feared may cum ben tae pass, my brothers. Many a prophet has foretold this day, and now…. aat we are finally here, are we to cower from the shadows like so many wee bairns barely weaned from their mither's breast?'

The rumble had settled to a ripple now and faces turned upwards in rapt attention to the man as his voice boomed like thunder over them.

'No…this day of all days we will _nae _hide, we will _nae _cower…we will nae _run away. _No, this _day of all days _we will div fit maun be dane!' And then when many of the men from clans closer to the border of the Strawheads' land, looked confused and begun to mutter amongst themselves, the Crystal Caverns man amended his own words. 'We will do what _must_ be done. We will protect those aat are ours, and we will _defend_ this land from those aat would see the likes of us crawling on our knees with the dogs. This day we fight, for all aat we hold dear to our hearts and the hearts of our brothers, of our sisters, of our mithers and fathers and children's children. This day, we make the dead bleed!'

Men, Women and Children leapt to their feet with a roar, shields and spears alike rattled high in the air and amidst it all Mab stood still, her heart pounding in her ears, never once taking her eyes off the young visage of the blue-haired chieftain. The chant of the crowd washed over her then and she could hear it resounding within her own skull: _'Hail Chief, Hail the Chief… Hail the Leomhann, leader of men living!' _The girl felt a shiver move through her then, the words meant more than the crowd chanting them knew. They were more than a chant for a chief, more than a chant for a man; they were a promise of what was to come…a prophecy.


	13. Chapter 13 : All the World's a Stage

Arda, Middle-Earth, The Shire, The Dragon's Keep Playhouse: T.A. 2990, S.R. 1388; February 15th

The Burglar's Players, as they were known throughout the Shire, had staged _many_ a play. Often of their own composition, but never before had they had an _actual_ stage of their own to play it on. Their past plays had been staged out in the open, on the grassy banks of houses or in the local pub. To be fair, the Green Dragon did put out a wonderful spread for the actors and their audience, before that bar-fight and they had to stop mid-play to run for cover. But all that was to change.

When Mayor Taft had approached Bilbo about _building _them an actual stage, the well-to-do hobbit had had to restrain himself from laughing right in the old boy's face. It had been almost inconceivable that a structure of this magnitude would be built on Shire soil in his lifetime. Let alone by a lazy slug of a hobbit like Hilbert Taft, but Bilbo supposed anyone could change their ways in the middle of the play, if the fancy took them.

The players: Colon KettleBum, Parsley Overhill, Dollo Bottlenose, Radish Underhill, Heather Proudfoot, their leading lady Rubella Took and of course Bilbo himself, who funded as well as wrote most of their productions… stared at the massive structure. Just from the outside Bilbo could already guess the cost of the thing must have been astronomical … Bilbo was not entirely sure how _even he_ was ever going to be able to pay old Taft back for this.

At nearly forty feet tall the 'Dragon's Keep' was by far the largest and most ornate structure that now, or had _ever, _stood on Shire soil. It had taken almost six months to properly lay the foundations and a full five _years _to complete the rest of the structure. At last though, all the many workmen and craftsmen that had laboured tirelessly to complete this splendour…were finally finished.

Rubella Took, ever the one for dramatics, swept through the newly furnished pews that would one day hold her captive audience as if they already did. She flounced onto the stage that still held several carpenters, and turned with a twirl, to the rest of the company. She swept her arms up in an elegant, sweeping gesture and her voice rang out to every corner of that mighty theatre.

'My fellows no longer are we the houseless minstrels of yester-year… for now we are home.' As Rubella bowed to the applause of the others, Bilbo had to stand there in stunned silence…he had never known her to give such a short and to the point speech before. Rubella was family, and more to the point a dear friend …but Bilbo would be a liar if he said she didn't love the sound of her own voice.

Around them the carpenters and seamstresses had paused at their work to add their hands to the applause. Before long the stage shook with the sound and Bilbo had to cover his ears lest he go deaf from the very volume of it. It was as if the very theatre itself were giving its leading lady a grand standing ovation, it practically shook with excitement and all Bilbo could think of was that it was a pity Gandalf had had to cut his stay so very short. The wizard would have loved this.

A boom from somewhere outside the theatre echoed through the open doors, and suddenly all were silent.

Bag-End Gardens

From atop the Garden wall of Bag-End, May Gamgee heard the explosion far clearer than Mister Bilbo down in his grand play-house, heard it so clearly that it made her ears bleed. She saw it right enough too, down below her hobbits still ran from the blast, and debris flew through the air smashing into hobbit holes and houses alike. No one was safe, no one…not even up here on the hill.

Another boom, this one far louder than the last, sent May hurtling backwards off that wall, and the blast-wave that followed tossed her down the garden, till she landed face first into Mister Bilbo's potato patch. Her father and brother, who had been bent over the patch, now picked themselves up from similar positions on the ground.

'Da?' May managed to get out just before the second blast-wave hit and threw them against the Smial. Hamfast Gamgee struggled to his knees and hissed at his children to get inside and hide themselves in Mister Bilbo's larder…and to not make a sound while they did so. May barely had time to grab Samwise and haul him in past that grand green door, before the third blast hit and trapped them inside.

Hamfast struggled down Bagshot Road, the tremors through the ground making his stride more of a stumble. Around him dust and ash had begun to gather and swirl like fog, making it difficult to see…well…_anything_. From the corner of his eye he saw a flash of colour, bright yellow like the daisies in his garden, that…that might have been his home, but he couldn't be sure unless…unless he got closer. He turned and made his way to the quickly fading colour in the near distance, something wacked him on the shoulder as it moved past, and he toppled over onto what had been a fence.

'Bell!' The hobbit screamed his voice hoarse and choked under the weight of the ash. He screamed again and again until there was barely any air left in him. Then from amidst the ash clouding his failing vision someone emerged: a hobbit lass…dressed all in white she was. Her long yellow hair, yellow as daisies, curled and twisted into a braid down her back. Her face was round and kind, not made to be a pretty decoration for some gentlefolk up where it was fine, she was sturdy stock. She looked more like a farm girl from up in Tightfield, like his sisters…but sadder.

The Ganyman reached out to her, but she passed through him like nothing more than a gust of air…yet with that _gust of air_ he found his strength again. He pushed himself up and forward, until he now stood where seconds ago, she had: in the doorway of Number 3 Bagshot row.

Bilbo had been the first one out of the door after the boom, if the others had followed him, he didn't know. But quite frankly he didn't care…there were other things…other _people _… more important than that, now.

He ignored the screaming around him, he ignored the hobbits that tried to throw him to the side in their desperation to get away…his entire being was drawn to the hobbit-hole on top of the hill. So, intent was he on reaching that hobbit-hole, that he didn't even notice when he _himself _shoved a hobbit out of the way, or who that hobbit was.

Finally, he reached Bag-End, but there was no one in the garden, which, considering the damage that had been done was probably a good thing. His feet had taken him to the door before he could fully get his bearings on just how much had been destroyed. He grabbed for the door-handle and tried to wrench the blasted thing open. But no matter how hard he pulled the thing just wouldn't budge. Finally, in desperation Bilbo rammed his fist against the wood of the door and waited for any sign that there was someone inside. At the first knock, all that answered him was silence, at the second there was a small scuffling sound like the noise of someone small scrambling to the door, and at the third knock, there was a voice.

'Da?'

Bilbo's hand stilled upon the door, and he could hear his heart-beat in his ears. Memories of long buried nights of kissing games, of Daisy yellow hair, of missed cycles, aborted ceremonies, and of bastard babies hidden with kin, flooded the gentlehobbit's mind and he felt quite faint.

'Da? Is that you?'

The voice tried again, and Bilbo gathered his courage and finally answered.

'No Samwise it's not Da…its Mister Bilbo…I…I need to find your Da…do you know where he is? Or could…could you open the door for me?'

Bilbo's voice shook more now than it had ever done before, and he could barely breathe as he waited for the reply…though that could have been the ash in the air. At last a voice answered him, all though it wasn't Samwise's voice, but May's.

'He went to go find Ma and the others…please Mister Bilbo the door jammed behind us after the last shock…we…we can't get it open. Please sir…we're trapped.'

Bilbo's teeth sank into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, he felt torn and guilty at that. On the one hand, the desire to see Hamfast safe and whole was more over-powering now than it had ever been before. Even when the boy was a boy, and Bilbo could only watch from a distance. But he couldn't leave Hamfast's children…not even if it meant losing everything else…he'd never be able to live with himself afterwards. So, squaring his shoulders, Bilbo decided.

'Alright I'm going to try and pry the door open… okay? Now I want you children to push as hard as you can from your side of the door…you got that?' There were two small noises of understanding from behind the green wood.

Steadying his foot against the doorframe Bilbo gripped the door-handle tight in his left hand and pulled as hard as his tired arm would let him. With his right, he scraped his fingers up the door and wedged them just barely between the wood and its frame. He could feel the pressure from the other side and his arm was nearly yanked out of its socket when the thing burst open. He was most certainly crushed under the weight and flailing limbs of the two children that fell upon him…but he didn't care. Crushing them to his chest he let out a sob of relief…he hadn't failed in this, at least.

Nearly crushing her to his chest Hamfast let out a sob of relief, he hadn't failed in this, at least. Cradling his wife in his arms the gardener pressed a kiss to the top of her head and lifted her up into the air.

'Daddy!'

Hamfast whipped round and beheld his small daughter Marigold picking her way across the ash filled mess that had once been the Gamgee kitchen.

'Don't leave me behind, Daddy.' She toppled over mid walk and Ham nearly dropped Bell making a grab for the wee girl.

'Easy there, lass…now, where are the others?' Marigold sniffed, and half buried her face in her father's shoulder. A thick layer of dust coated her golden curls and her chubby round face, she looked like she could barely breathe, but she answered her father anyway.

'I don't know! Daisy went out to the market and Ham went out looking for Hal…because…because he'd wondered off to go….to go see the Halffoot…the Halffoot trial. But…Mrs. KettleBum said that's gonna be in…in Michel Delving. So, I don't know where any of them are now.'

Tears were rolling down her cheeks by the end and her breath was coming in low and shaky. Hamfast held her closer and attempted to rock her back and forth, but all that ended up doing was jostling his wife.

'Easy there now my girl…I'll sort everything, we'll just get you up to Bag-End now won't we. Sam and May are hidden up there, you'll be safe, while I go looking for those siblings of yours.'

February 15th of the 1390th year in Shire Reckoning, would be forever remembered as a tragedy of such magnitude that few could put words to it. The first set of explosions had taken out almost half of Michel Delving. The second had been smaller and situated closer to Hobbiton, so it was mostly just the farmers round those parts that suffered casualties from those. But however great the loss most minds in the Shire, certainly all in Hobbiton and what was left of Michel Delving, turned to one thought, and one thought only: someone had to be held accountable…someone had to be punished for this.

Then from out of the mists of this despair emerged a saviour…the hobbit who, in the hearts of many, would make all that had gone wrong right again. And more importantly would punish all those found to be at fault for this. And that marvellous hobbit's name was… Faldo Proudfoot.


	14. Chapter 14 : The Three Brothers

Arda, Middle-Earth, Dunland, Bog of the Dead; T.A. 2992

The three brothers had set out from Gondor nearly nine months past, and it was becoming abundantly clear that they were lost. They had set their wandering minds for the kingdom of Rohan, but somehow through some twist of fate…and some very bad map reading, they had ended up in this accursed place. It wasn't even like they'd gone terribly off the path; they'd followed the map their father had reluctantly handed over, religiously. Yet somehow, they had managed to bypass the land of the Horse Lords almost entirely.

They'd passed through grasslands of course, which thinking back now may have in fact _been _Rohan. Yet, how were they supposed to know that? There'd been nothing to indicate there was even a settlement on those long windy plains of grass… let alone a great kingdom of men

The youngest brother was thoroughly convinced that if he had just been allowed to hold the map, just once, they would not now be knee high in a bog whose only purpose seemed to be consuming unwary travellers. His brothers may have been thinking similar thoughts, but they did not express their anger in quite the same way as he: that is, by swinging his mighty sword blindly around his head, hoping it just so happened to lop off one of their necks.

It didn't…thank the Valar, but what it did do was get stuck in a very large and low hanging branch. The Youngest tried to pull his mighty weapon free, but no matter how hard he tugged it just would not budge. The branch did rock though, violently and loudly enough to draw not only the attention of his two older and irate brothers, but also whoever those shadowy figures that were now circling them were.

Arda, Middle Earth, Minus Tirith; Four months later

Denethor stared blankly at the parchment in front of him; the letter was by far the strangest thing the ruling Steward of Gondor had ever read. Months ago, when the Three Idiots had gone over their father's head and asked Denethor if they could set off to parts unknown – to the three fools at least – he'd barely given it a second thought. The answer of yes, had seemed so simple then; none of them were much use to Gondor, having not a skill with a weapon between them…despite what they seemed to believe; and it would set their upstart father in his place, Denethor had not forgiven the man for his cheek at trying to pinch one of the steward's _own sons_ for a son-in-law.

Yet clearly Denethor had not thought it over enough, if this strange account – written to him in the hand of the Eldest of the three buffoons – was anything to judge by.

The fool claimed to have seen spirits of men long dead; of course, this alone would not have been so fantastical – there was hardly a man alive in Minus Tirith today who wasn't haunted by the ghosts of the past. So, no… it was not the mention of spirits that made the tale so bizarre, really it was not the tale at all, but what the young fool had sent with it.

The Steward ran his finger along the edge of the knife, it was no more than a blade, since no handle had been crafted for it. In fact, the blade _itself _had barely been crafted, another skill the three wandering fools did not possess, yet it still shone in a way that such a crudely crafted knife shouldn't have done. In fact, when he'd first unwrapped it, he'd believed the young fools had found black marble in the savage hills of Dunland, until the letter had told him otherwise.

A new kind of metal, the fools had claimed, one that would turn the tide on Gondor's enemies.

A metal that could bring down even the dead.

Middle-Earth, Dunland, Bog of the Dead: TA 2992

The middle brother held the axe his father had shoved into his hands before they'd left, in front of himself. He might have tried to swing it at the slowly approaching men, but it would do no good. More than likely all he would end up hacking off was his own foot, and it wasn't like they looked…terribly…fearsome. They weren't even charging towards the brothers, more like stumbling or limping their way closer to the wayward siblings.

In fact, many of them did not even seem to be full grown men at all. They squealed at the three brothers in a strange language and reached their chubby little hands out to them, almost in a pleading gesture. But his younger brother would have none of it, he'd finally managed to yank his sword blade free of the tree branch and was now proceeding to wave it in the general direction of their 'attackers'. The children hissed at them and retreated into the trees that surrounded the bog, but this wasn't nearly enough for the blithering idiot with the sword. He advanced on them, stepping out of the bog like it was no more than a muddy puddle.

The wisest brother, for in Gondor middle children are almost always the wisest, was hot on his brother's heels, completely ignoring their elder brother's indignant squawk of 'we could just walk out'.

He had to stop the young fool, before he did something truly stupid. Something that would end not only their own lives, but thousands like them. The young man of Gondor was not entirely sure how his brother would accomplish this, but he was more than certain that he _would_.

Minas Tirith, Five months later

The first wagon of the strange metal that pulled up at the gates of the great city of Minas Tirith, was turned away before Denethor even got wind of it. The second however had contained more than just the metal itself… it had contained weapons, more importantly though it had contained large men of Rohan _holding_ those weapons.

It wasn't exactly that they _meant_ to threaten anyone, but well… they did find themselves standing in front of Lord Denethor far quicker than they would have _without _the weapons. The youngest brother stepped forward and bowed low to the Steward of Gondor

'You've read my brother's letter, my lord?'

Denethor fixed the younger man with a hard glare and then rose from his black chair, with the practiced elegant grace of one who knew they were better than you.

'Indeed, I did, though I have to say he failed to mention your companions. I do not see him here today, so I presume he is not with you?'

The Youngest shook his head. 'Nor with anyone my lord, he was murdered in battle by the Dunlanders. They are a savage people with no thought on the pain their actions may cause others, tis a pity the Rohirians haven't wiped them out yet. But have no worry sir, for that will soon come to pass. Once our two great armies are combined then those foul beasts will have nowhere to hide, and we can take back what is rightfully ours.'

Denethor roared with laughter.

'Rightfully ours, he says. Oh, have no fear I will not refuse your request young pup, there will be no woman, man or child left in Dunland who is not of Gondor blood. But the land those heavens dwell on is not rightful ours, not yet at least. For what reason would our ancestors have wanted such a land, certainly not to live on…there is a reason boy, only the Dunlanders were fool-hardy enough to settle there. But no matter the past, this metal is a wondrous thing indeed.'

Hope began to blossom again on the face of the youngest brother, and he dared to speak then.

'The mightiest of all metals, only to be wielded by the mightiest of all men. Perhaps even it is a gift from the Valar themselves. So, who are we as mere mortals to deny such a gift, a gift they meant as a birth right for the descendants of Numenor…so sir please believe me when I say…the land of Dunland is rightfully ours. Not because our ancestors lived there, you are correct, why would they… but because _all _the lands in Middle-Earth are rightfully ours. We are the sons of Numenor and it is time we started acting like it.'

Denethor smiled, as if he had just heard a joke that only he could see.

Dunland, Mine of the Three Brothers (Passage of the Dead): TA 2993

When the three brothers had first stumbled on the large tunnel-like cave that would eventually become their illustrious mine, they did not as the history books claim, feel a sense of wonder, or innate ownership of the place. No what they _felt_ was cold, wet, and _extremely_ angry with one another.

The children they had been chasing had melted into the woods like so much mist. And as the three tired, angry brothers stumbled into the only possible shelter around for miles, they were beginning to wonder if the spirits had even been there at all. In retrospect, the middle brother didn't know whether it was luck or misfortune that had led them to that cave. It had certainly felt like luck back then, with the rain pounding so hard down around them – but what had come after, so much death and all for some shiny rocks his brother had found encrusted onto the wall of their shelter.

That had been nearly a year ago now, and many things had happened since then: his eldest brother was dead and buried at the foot of the mine, and the younger was off and away to summon the armies of the great to reap bloody vengeance on those that had put him there. The Dunlanders, they had not been best pleased when the brothers had settled the mine, though they themselves avoided it like it held the plague. Maybe it did, he hadn't exactly been feeling at all well lately, though he'd attributed it to running a mine under siege. If the Dunlanders had been irate at the three brothers' presence, then they were downright berserk at the Rohan miners the three had brought in.

At first, they'd had an attack daily, then it had trickled down to barely once a week, and now they could go entire months without seeing a single man of Dunland pass their way. It would seem they had lost the Dunlanders' interest, if they had ever really held it before. Perhaps the army his brother was summoning would be _entirely_ unneeded by the time they arrived…which wouldn't really be a surprise when it came to aid from Gondor.

From further down the mine the young man of Gondor heard the whoop of the miners. They must have found another hunk of that _wondrous _metal, he should go and look…see what they found, but the pounding in his head was too much, and he felt woozy just sitting here trying to get the death toll straight. He had to go and lie down, or he most certainly would be sick.


	15. Chapter 15: Celegorm of Hobbiton

Middle-Earth, The Shire, Hobbiton; S.R. 1389

It was fact widely known that Fëa did not escape the halls of Mandos, not because they didn't know how…quite the contrary, for those who were willing to ask it was easy enough to find the exit. But because all who resided there knew all too well what happened to you when you escaped. It wasn't like being let out of Mandos, you didn't have a nice new body waiting for you on the other side…yet you could hardly wonder the world as a houseless wraith, well I suppose you could, but it would be agony unending. So, your only hope then…was to find a body to possess.

When the fëa once known as Celegorm reawakened, he had no idea whose body he'd taken…just that it was not an elf's. It was much smaller for a start, well height-wise anyway, and it had much larger feet. Right at that moment though who or what the previous occupant had been, hadn't really mattered very much. What had was pushing that other creature aside and getting out of that bed…and then well hopefully things would become better in time.

They didn't…of course.

Middle-Earth, The Shire, what's-left-of- Michel Delving, Temporary Council chambers; S.R. 1391, June 1st

After the first waves of panic had settled and days in the Shire had started to get back to…well, not normal…never normal…but less terror-filled, the minds of the great had started to move on to other matters. The most important seeming was the replacement for Mayor Taft, who'd been one of the first victims of the explosion and some said, its intended target.

Paladin Took was not Thain, and if the thick layer of ash that coated _everything _in this bloody town had a say in it, he never would be. From the second he'd climbed out of his carriage – pulled by ponies, none of that steam powered nonsense thank you very much – he'd had to keep his handkerchief practically sealed around his mouth and nose. In fact, most of the hobbits that now sat around the make-shift table, hadn't let their handkerchiefs drop an inch since they'd sat down almost half an hour ago.

'Do we even need a mayor, anymore?'

The sharp, high voice could cut glass if it had the mind to, Paladin thought sourly. Lalia Clayhanger Took sat at the head of the table, presiding over all like the queen and regent she seemed to think she was.

'Really…where's the point? What possible purpose does a Mayor serve that couldn't be accomplished just as well by the Thain himself, or even the Master of Buckland?'

'Because they don't live here.'

All heads turned to assess the newcomer. Faldo Proudfoot was not just a fat hobbit, but a colossal one. When he moved round the table, he made it feel like another tremor was shaking the ground beneath them.

'As fine a person as the Thain is my good-hobbits, he can never rule up here with any authority. The hobbits up here at best think any Took or Brandybuck an utter fool or, at worst, believe you are hatching some dastardly plot to end the Shire. And after current events, thoughts of such a nature will be running rampant.

'If you force your hand on this matter, you'll have riots in the streets, I promise you that. No, you need a Mayor…someone to act when you can't …someone to see to it that everything runs smoothly from now on. Someone to see to it that everyone gets the justice they deserve.'

It was quite a speech, for even Lalia Took had fallen silent and thoughtful at the sound of the large hobbit's words.

'Now normally we would hold an election for this person, but tensions as I've said before are running high and as those with greater minds, we must take this situation in hand, before something even deadlier happens to our beautiful Shire. We cannot trust that the average hobbit will make the right choice… so we must, here today, choose someone from among ourselves to lead them…the only question is, who will it be?'

Lalia pressed her steeped fingertips to her lips and never once broke eye-contact with old Proudfoot, until he'd finished his speech. Then she sighed and shook her head in resignation.

'Of course, you're right; Tooks wouldn't enjoy being bossed around by a hobbit from up here, either. So, it is to be one of us then, well who could it possibly be? Certainly not a Took or a Brandybuck which clears most of the table doesn't it…the only ones without those names are me, who married a Took so that doesn't really count, and you, Faldo Proudfoot.'

For a second the two hobbits stared at each other, each trying to weigh the others weakness against their own, before finally Lalia looked away and sighed again.

'Fine, have it your own way…we may as well have at least the appearance that this is really a choice. Will all those who oppose this please raise their hand.'

No hand stirred from its owner's lap.

'Very well, the silence has it then…will everyone please welcome our new Mayor to the table.'

The applause was half-hearted and limp as Proudfoot squeezed his quite sizable frame into one of the chairs.

Mistress Took rose and directed a short bow to the newly 'elected' mayor.

'I'm afraid I cannot stay for further deliberations; I have a very busy schedule. Please do give the people of Michel Delving and Hobbiton my best, and may you enjoy your reign on their fate…such as it is.'

The first Ganyman, Celegorm had ever met was the one he had knocked over when he'd first taken this body for his own. Not that many people – either hobbit or elf – would call that a proper meeting. Still it had left an impression in the son of Fëanor's mind, lurking round a dead body was such a strange thing for anyone to be doing, but especially as he would learn later, for a hobbit. Hobbits were small and round, they didn't carry swords and they were never late for tea. All of this had been made perfectly clear to him his first night of being a hobbit; when after losing his way in the massive maze of tunnels the creatures call home, and being unable to make it to the other side, he had stumbled back to the room that he woke in.

He'd found her there, kneeling beside the cold looking bed and sobbing. Her mass of grey curls – clearly a wig – abandoned on the floor, and her bowed head as bald as the moon in the sky. He wasn't exactly ashamed to say that he laughed then, more out of bewilderment than any kind of cruelty; but he did laugh, loud enough to wake her from her solitary melancholy. She jerked her head to look at him, and her mouth, smeared with paint as it was, hung open in atonement.

'Faldo…Faldo…you're here, you're…I thought that awful Ganyman had taken your body.'

And there was that word, Ganyman – an odd thing for a creature that wasn't a man to call himself. Just the sound of the thing had a ring of power to it – the kind of power that any elf's fëa should be well acquainted with. No, no that was ridicule, Námo was all the way back in terrible Mandos – and besides what would the Valar of the dead be doing with well whatever these small creatures were. As he had been musing this, the wife had been talking.

'I never wanted to call that Ganyman in the first place, a nasty rustic tradition – what would the neighbours say? But you insisted, well it was all for naught now I suppose, you weren't dead anyway. That brute will want his money but don't worry, I'm going to keep you safe, we won't let any of those nasty Ganymen touch you. They think they can see the dead, or know them at any rate…well I know you, and there's no one more needed of a second chance at life. They won't take you away from me again.'

It is not a hard thing to hide what one truly is, to hide that you do not belong in your body. Most mortals will not ask, and even some of the ones that do will not care. The wife was like that, Faldo Proudfoot's wife was just so happy that her husband had somehow come back to her from the brink of death that she didn't even question it when he no longer acted, like fat old Faldo Proudfoot anymore.

When you weren't expecting an ancient sprit of a warrior elf to possess the quickly cooling corpse of your dead husband, you didn't see an ancient spirit of a warrior elf in your dead husband…you saw your husband.

It would take someone far more acquainted with Death to find out this little secret, and ruin…well all the Valar's plans.

And he couldn't let that happen, now could he?

The Shire, Hobbiton, Marketplace; S.R. 1391, June 12th

The signs had gone up long before anyone had opened market that day, no one was exactly sure who had put them up, but most people assumed it must have been one of those high-minded Tooks or Brandybucks.

Signs in of themselves weren't that uncommon a sight in the marketplace, even ones done by the Mayor's office. But these were different. They were a great deal bigger than your average notice for a start, and a great deal more…colourful. Some were as long as your arm, more list than poster and others were nothing more than paintings printed up onto poor paper. But whatever the type or format each poster's subject was the same: Ganymen.

May and Halfred Gamgee stood transfixed to the spot, unable to look away no matter how hard they tried. The article on whom their eyes were drawn to stated thus:

**Beware the Ganyman's Lies**

**For as long as most of us can remember the Ganymen and their followers have spread their poison among some of our most vulnerable and easily-led astray families. Well I say to you no more!**

**Ganymen will have you believe that they and only they can grant you a good after-life. That no matter what you may have done in this life, so long as you tell your ****_Last Tale _****to a Ganyman then you are guaranteed to not fade away into dust.**

**This is an archaic and poisons tradition, which spreads woeful slothfulness between the already dependent working classes. More than that though…it is a lie. Any Hobbit of Learning could and will tell you the truth…that if your faith lays with the Valar and their creator and ****_only _****them, you will not go astray. **

**More and more hobbits are waking up to this reality and shunning the old-fashioned superstitions that their forbears once clung to. The Ganymen know this…and will do anything within their power to stop it.**

The rest of the notice was taken up with an artist's portrayal of the Michel Delving disaster. Small shadowy figures holding Ganymen staffs situated in each corner of the picture. May's whole body began to shake, and she fell backwards into Halfred's arms. The youth growled under his breath as he pushed his sister back onto her own two feet.

'Come on…let's go home May. I'm suddenly not very hungry anymore, and Da needs to be told.'


	16. Chapter 16: A Pocket full of Posies

Arda, Middle-Earth, Dunland, The Crystal Caves: T.A. 2994

Mab picked her way across the Healing Cave that she had set her workshop up in. The bodies on the floor were separated by severity of condition. Those that had only the very start of the symptoms, little more than a stomach ache and a bad case of diarrhoea, were kept at the front of the cave. It was a little colder, but the air was fresh and pure, so after the stuffiness of some of the Dwelling Caves few complained. The more severe cases were kept further back, pure air could do little for them now and the heat of the fire was stronger closer to the middle of the cave.

The healers clustered round the patients, fussing over one and rubbing ointment on another. Their quick frightened movements looked rather like rats when they knew they'd been caught. Mab stepped over one of them with her ear pressed to a patient's chest. Just a few years ago Mab would have little cause to even go see a _traveling_ healer…but now it seemed she couldn't escape them.

The young Sorceress passed the patients in the back of the cave, little more than rotting flesh on somehow _still breathing_ bone. It would have been kinder, she thought, to put them out of their misery…many of them begged for it at the end. But this was a strange and cruel plague, only killing when the last ounce of hope left the body. That sounded like 'Mystic Talk' as The Leomhann would call it, but it was terror inducing to realize how very true it was.

She'd seen people hold on to a hope that they would get better, or at least that this was all a dream, then when that fled them, they hung onto the hope that it would kill them long before they became the living skeletons of the Burning Caves. That never happened… they always became those skeletons and only when their last hope left them, and they became resigned to their fate of continuous agony, did this cruel plague finally release them.

She'd left the Healing caves behind rather quicker than she should have, certainly much quicker than she wished she had. While the Healing Caves were vile now, and hardly fitting of the name _healing, _they were a mile high better than the _Burning caves. _

A dark collection of rooms that before the plague had been used to store meat in, now filled with the rank smell of burning flesh. There were bodies in here as well, some of them even still alive, but unlike its neighbour these were not lain together in neat little rows for the convenience of the healer. Or resting on soft wool or hay and wrapped in as many blankets as the healers could spare…no, these did not even have clothes on their backs. Their bare and rotted flesh left uncovered for all to see. In the middle of each of these caves stood a fire, or bone-fire as the burners called them, much larger than the Healing Caves' blaze and with a far ranker smell.

Large burly men tossed the brittle corpses into the bone-fires, their mouths and noses covered by thin rags tied around their heads. These were the Burners; they disposed of the bodies as quickly and as efficiently as possible. There were simply too many bodies to bury, even if that had been the custom in these lands. And, it was known that the Enemy didn't possess bodies that were burned, though quite frankly what spirit in his right mind, would think it a clever idea to take one of- these poor souls' bodies? Most of their legs were gnawed away into thin stick like mockeries of legs and their arms only spared that fate by crumbling away into nothing. It was an Abomination as the Elder of her tribe would have said, well would have said before he caught the plague himself.

From the corner of the room Mab heard a groan, it was small and highly pitched… like a child's voice. Mab felt the bile rise within her throat and her knees knocked together like they'd done when she was a young girl. It couldn't be possible, there wasn't a child still breathing in here…the younger you were the quicker the sickness took you. So, it just wasn't possible and yet as she listened, Mab could clearly hear the tell-tale sound of a child's whimper.

She didn't have to pick herself across _this_ floor, for all the bodies were stacked high ready to be burned. And in one of these stacks lay the child who she could still hear whimpering. Her hands guided her around the piles of quickly decomposing bodies when her eyes failed her, the sound of the child was becoming louder which meant only one thing…she was getting closer.

'Help…Help me.'

Mab scrambled towards the voice, her hands sliding over the faces of the dead as she searched blindly for her goal. Then…when she had all but given up hope the voice came again, so loud this time that she could swear the child was standing right behind her.

'You…you…found me! Please help me…this is all new to me.'

Mab bent forward and peered down at the boy's face, but it was hard to see anything once you were past the reach of the fire's glow. She could only just make out the child's features: they were more than just skeletal…they were bone. The flesh had rotted away almost entirely, and the skin that remained was mottled green and foul smelling. One eye rolled in the skull's eye-socket, as it clattered its teeth together trying to make sound again.

'Goheno nin'

The girl's hand jerked away but not nearly quick enough, for the bony claw of the possessed corpse was on her…scrabbling at her arm like it was a piece of rope they just couldn't get a firm grip on. Mab screamed and the yells of the Burners in the distance took on a more frantic note. The creature wailed in-between clattering of its rotted teeth, whether it was more of the enemy's strange language or just plain gibberish Mab no longer had the presence of mind to guess. Around her the body stacks trembled with the strength of her rage, in years to come she would have the focus to do amazing things with the reach of her magic, but now – if her mind was not focused on its outcome, it would never come to pass. And right now all her energies were dedicated to wriggling out of that vice like grasp. But no matter how hard she wacked it or struggle the thing just wouldn't let go.

The sound of heavy footsteps from behind her almost gave Mab the strength to yank her arm free, but just before she did the creature dug its claw deep into her arm, leaving a trail of blood down her right side. She didn't know whether she was screaming again or whether she had just never stopped in the first place.

The light of a fire torch filled the chamber and for the first time Mab was able to see her attacker in all his repugnant glory. It had once been a child; the body that is, the tiny size spoke for its self. Small pincer like hands reached out to her as the tiny skull clattered to her in the spirit's tongue.

Then fire encompassed her sight and the creature screamed; Mab scrambled out of reach of both the body and the Burner's torch. She lay there, her heart in her throat and her breath coming in short panicked pants and tried to collect herself. Still shaking, her right hand reached in to the pouch on her belt and fished out a hand full of flower petals. She pressed the sweet-smelling flowers to her nose and breathed in deeply, they blocked the smell of the burning bodies at least, but whether they would influence this plague as they had others in the past, Mab was starting to have her doubts.

Whatever the case, one thing at least was clear… she needed to get out of this cave, a handful of posies couldn't block the smell of death forever.


	17. Chapter 17: The Hunt of the Ganyman

Middle-Earth, The Shire, Hobbiton, Number Three Bagshot Road: T.A 2994, April 1st

Laws were made to protect us, both as individuals and as a collective society. So, if the laws said something was illegal, it could only be for our benefit…that was the general consensus anyway. It was an easy enough fact, or opinion, to accept depending on _what _was made illegal.

For your average upper and middle-class hobbits who had long degraded the tradition, the fact that Ganymen were now illegal was no great burden …for everyone else…well…things were slightly harder to accept, especially now.

No one was entirely sure what or who had caused the plague folks had started calling 'The Grand Sickness', but what was certain, was that it spread quickly. One child would come home coughing or with an ill-feeling stomach and before you could blink the whole damn street would have it.

Generally, it took quite a lot to get a hobbit sick, at least in a serious way. Everyone got a cold now and then, and of course there were childhood diseases like chicken-pox that most had to go through sometime in their life. But stuff like this, stuff that was life-threating; nu-uh hobbits just didn't get that kind of sickness. Yet no one could deny they were certainly getting it now, when the first child died.

Crops lay untended in the fields because the farmers, whose families often were considered large even by hobbit standards, were too afraid to leave their houses; were too afraid to risk another child. Hence the food supply was going down, and hobbits eat a lot, so it was going down quickly.

If you already had a large fully-packed cellar or could afford to import from out-side the Shire you and your family were unlikely to starve. And if you had caught 'the grand sickness', you were unlikely to care if you did. However, the poorer families, those of the working class, were in quite a bit of trouble. Sometimes folk didn't know what was killing the lower classes quicker, the Sickness or the Hunger.

It was a time of terror for most everyone and the loss of the Ganymen was felt most keenly where it had been believed. A child would collapse in the street for one reason or another and would be on their death bed by the end of the week; and the mothers and fathers of the more rustic families would have to watch their child die without their Last Tale being spoken. They would have to accept that their child's spirit would fade away into dust, as if they'd never been in the first place. For they could not even attempt to do the task themselves, for even the mention of the dead was considered Gany-Art and a hanging offence. And for the Ganymen themselves, unable to practice their craft, for anyone, even their own families, lest they be executed without a trial …it was almost unbearable.

May Gamgee had come home with a sour stomach around a month ago…in retrospect it was a lot longer than most families had to say goodbye.

Bell Gamgee sat at her daughter's bed-side unwilling to move even to eat, this had led some to believe that the mother of six had caught the sickness as well… but no, that was just how Bell was. May lay nestled in a cocoon of blankets in the middle of her parents' bed. Her fever was shockingly high, her nose ran continually, and she had eaten nothing in at least three weeks. It was a miracle that she'd survived this long…especially considering no healer of any worth would see her.

It was well known in Hobbiton, perhaps even further than that if the fallout was anything to judge by, that Hamfast was one of the top Ganymen in the Shire. All this positive press, and warm feedback for his skills may have worked to the Gamgees favour before, but now it just served to warn right-minded hobbits away from them.

Hamson had lost his place at the blacksmiths, the official explanation was that apprentices were expensive, and Master Bullroarer could only have so many at a time. But everyone knew the real reason and money had little to do with it. People had even begun to swerve round them in the street as if they carried the sickness with them.

However, there was one silver lining amongst all this grey fog of despair: Mister Bilbo Baggins, by far the best Hobbit anywhere that hobbits called home. He'd kept Hamfast on as his gardener for a start, not only that but he had increased the ex-Ganyman's pay. Ham's eyes had boggled the first time he'd caught sight of his new income, he'd never seen so much money in all his life. Mister Bilbo had also said that if any of Ham's little 'uns felt the call of the green thumb the gentlehobbit was happy to take them on…and at full salary at that. Ham could recognize charity when he saw it, and his first knee jerk reaction was to thank Mister Bilbo for his kindness and to politely decline, but one hard look from Daisy and he stilled his stupid tongue. It was because of him and his craft that his family were suffering now, he couldn't be the one to prolong it.

Truly the Gentlehobbit's kindness and generosity knew no boundaries, for no one on Bagshot Row went hungry. Carts driven by some of Mister Bilbo's dwarves arrived monthly and dropped crates of food at hobbits' doors. It wasn't no great delicacies or the like, just plain simple fair that would keep a hobbit's belly full if they ate with some sense. A lot of pickles and preservatives, stuff that would keep on the long trip from the dwarf kingdom to here, Ham had found that he was starting to quite like the taste of dwarf bread. It was tougher than a hobbit-made loaf, but it was filling and more importantly kept for a long while. The Gamgees had several of the hard breads stored in their cupboards already.

But sometimes even Mister Bilbo's powers could not make the world move. When Mayor Proudfoot decreed that to heal any Ganyman or any future Ganyman was as good as committing the crime yourself, the grand hobbit had tried to send for a dwarven or even an elven healer to come see to May. But they'd been turned away at the border, which had a steady supply of slightly wounded and bitter Shirriffs guarding the perimeter. When news of that had gotten back to Bag-End Mister Bilbo had stamped and raged even harder than Ham had.

Ham was angry oh aye there was no doubt in that, but he had learned quickly that ranting and raging did little to help either himself or his family. If anything, it only served to frighten Sam-lad and little Marigold, who since May's sickness, now spent most of their time up at Bag-End learning their letters. Hamfast had felt unsure about that to begin with, having never really learnt his letters himself and seeing no real reason why a hobbit of their class ought to. But Mister Bilbo had been insistent, and Daisy-lass had brought up the quite solid point that Sam-lad and Marigold had to keep away from May while she was lying with sickness anyway. She was right of course, they couldn't stay in the house while May was sick…the younger you were the quicker it took you, and Ham trusted Mister Bilbo more than anyone to keep his children safe.

They weren't there now of course, because Mister Bilbo had gone up to Buckland for the week. But it was no matter; May had long passed the stage where she might be infectious to others. She spent most of her days now, unconscious, except for those few and far between moments where she woke up and screamed for death. Like she was doing now or had been until she'd given up words altogether and lapsed into a high keening wail.

Daisy had ordered Halfred to take Sam and Marigold for a walk round the market, even though half the stalls were closed. She then set to work making a lunch of Dwarrow bread with raspberry jam and pickled eggs; desperately trying to block out the sound of…of May.

Ham couldn't block her out, no matter how hard he tried. It wasn't just that his daughter was dying…it was that his daughter was _begging_ to die, and there was _nothing_ any of them could do to help.

_Almost nothing._

A small voice in his head whispered and Ham began to shake all over. No, he couldn't do that no more, it wasn't legal now and he'd put his family through enough because…because of that.

_Isn't it putting them through more to leave her in that much pain? _

Ham shook his head till he was sure his ears were starting to bleed, yes…yes it was, but he couldn't. He'd promised Daisy and Bell, that he wouldn't put the family in danger no more just because…just because…

_She's in pain._

Finished the voice, Ham was beginning to recognize as his own.

_No one will know, even if Daisy and Bell see they won't tell._

Ham probably could have stood the temptation if May hadn't been screaming like that, but…how could he stand that noise, those pleas for death in his daughter's voice anymore and not answer them?

He couldn't claim that what he was doing was right for all concerned, but he had to make the screaming stop. He had to make May's pain stop…she was never gonna get better, all she had left now was her hope for death; and Hamfast was always an awful one for spoiling his girls.

Squaring his shoulders, Ham made his way past the kitchen without being noticed, and down into the back-garden where he had buried his Ganyman Staff.

Middle-Earth, The Shire, Hobbiton: T.A. 2994, April 2nd

Frodo Baggins sat at the head of the cart, his head nodding from lack of sleep. His Uncle Bilbo had been adamant that they get back to Hobbiton as quickly as possible, so the pair had driven through the night. Frodo had tried to get some rest in the back of the cart, like Bilbo had suggested, but with every bump in the road the young hobbit was jiggled awake once again. Eventually he'd just givrn up entirely and climbed up beside Bilbo, who sat holding the reins of the joyfully galloping pony they'd hired from one of the farmers in Buckland.

It didn't really matter anyway; Frodo wouldn't have been able to get a peaceful night's sleep even if the road had been flat. The image of Merry's face as he ran after the cart, screaming for Frodo to come back haunted the tween's every waking thought. He knew going with Bilbo was the right decision in the long run, but that face…oh Valar that face. He'd tried to consul himself with the knowledge that Merry would be coming to visit, but it wasn't enough to still his raging conscience. Frodo just couldn't fight the feeling that he'd somehow let Merry down.

With a jolt the cart came to a sudden halt, and Frodo found himself nearly jerked out of his seat. Bilbo had stopped the cart just at the bottom of the lane and was staring fixedly up a it in a disturbed manner.

'Bilbo?'

As if shaking himself out of a dream Bilbo threw Frodo a tired smile, then gave the reins a harsh slap and the pony was off again. They continued up the hilled lane, but at a much steadier pace than before. The houses and smials they passed didn't seem very different to the ones in Buckland, the thought comforted him, as Bilbo pulled up alongside a crowd of hobbits congregated outside a small garden.

'Ho! What do we have here? What's going on?'

Bilbo leapt down from the cart and marched into the crowd. For a moment or two Frodo sat there, awkwardly balancing at the front of the cart, unsure of what to do. His mind was made up for him though when a sharp cry came from the crowd, a cry that sounded vaguely like Uncle Bilbo. Leaping down from the cart Frodo pushed hobbits aside far rougher than he would have had he not been so panicked. Thus, it did not take him long to reach the source of the crowd's agitation and the source of the cry.

The house at the end of the small garden did not look dilapidated from age or lack of care. Instead its boarded-up windows and the crude graffiti on its walls and carved into its yellow door, gave more a feeling of a building under siege. Whoever was in there, Valar help them, were trying to wait out the mob…hoping they'd get tired or lose interest soon and wander off.

Bilbo stood in front of the jeering crowd his arms spread wide as if he were trying to hide the whole house behind his body. But it was no use, the crowd was closing in and Bilbo's back was pressing hard into the yellow door behind him. Frodo had to do something and quickly at that.

'Hey!'

His voice was shaky and the hobbits in the crowd paid no heed to the tween. So, taking a deep breath Frodo yelled again.

'Oy!'

This they heard, a few of them even stopped in their tracks and gave him a quizzical look. Finding his courage, Frodo spoke in the most commanding voice he could muster.

'What's this now? Is its common practice in Hobbiton to destroy your neibors houses?'

A burly hobbit at the head of the crowd turned and growled at him.

'Tis when we got a righteous reason to, Outlander. These scums be Ganymen…don't be fooled into feeling pity for the likes of them: liars and sneaks and baby-killers the lot of 'em.'

Frodo snorted not even attempting to hide his disdain for the hobbit in front of him.

'Only the ignorant believe that. I may not believe in Ganymen and their ways, but I certainly wouldn't call them killers. They may be misled in certain beliefs but at their heart they're trying to _help _you_. _Which is a lot more than your kind would do for anyone. '

Frodo and the brute were now nose to nose, and the large bully sneered at the fine hobbit.

'Who comes to our town and talks like this? Like we're the scum of the Shire? Aye outlander you have a look of a Took about ye…well that makes sense, always sticking their high and mighty selves where they don't belong. What oh mighty wonder of the Took Clan brings ye here? Lost on the way to a ball? Or perhaps a banquet with the elves…you Tooks like those folks, don't you?'

Frodo shrugged unintimidated by the oaf.

'Some do that's true; it varies from member to member. But I am not a Took…I am a Baggins. Frodo Baggins at your service, ward and heir to Bilbo Baggins of Bag-End; whom I believe, you owe your continued existence to. Food is running scarce everywhere my large friend, and it would be a pity if the supplies from Erebor and Dale stopped arriving…which they're likely to do if you turn on the hobbit who made it happen.'

The thought of an empty belly is liable to stop even the angriest hobbit in their tracks, and the image of what would happen if the supplies from the dwarves dried up sent many of the crowd skittering back to their homes. This included the brute in front of Frodo, although in his case it was more that he was dragged back there by concerned lackeys.

Once the last of the crowd had disappeared off into the distance, the door to the house creaked open and a small face peaked out. Frodo thought of Merry again and tried to swallow his apprehension.

Three hours earlier

Sam Gamgee for once did not wake up screaming from his dreams, but that didn't seem to matter because everyone else was. He'd clambered out of bed and into the hall before he'd really wrapped his head around being awake again. So, the people that ran past him were little more than jittery blurs to his child's eye. The voices though…they were as clear as the brightest day in summer.

'No…No…please…please…he didn't do this! She just died, like they all die. He doesn't even have his staff anymore!'

That was Ma's voice, more frantic now than even her nastiest of turns. Sam's feet carried him to where the yelling was loudest. He could see a bit clearer now, so he saw right enough the two Shirriff's standing in the door way of Number 3 Bagshot Row, and he saw what they were doing.

His Da weren't even kicking or screaming or doing nothing to fight back as those two villains dragged him out the door and away from Sam's Ma. Well this weren't going to stand…not while Samwise Gamgee were alive to stop it. Gathering his courage, the young Hobbit ran after the two Shirriffs, evading the capture of his sister Daisy's arms, young Sam scooped up a handful of pebbles and threw them as hard as he could at the two Shirriffs' heads. Of course, as hard as he could was not very hard at all, and so only one pebble out of the many found its mark. But it was enough to turn the villain's head, and before Sam could be jerked out of the way a large hand came down and struck him right across the face.

Twelve Weeks Later

The charge, as the Shirriff's called it, was Murder under the first degree and willing devotion to followers of the death arts, otherwise known as Ganymen. It was decided, by the Mayor's office and only them seeing as how no judge in the Shire was _allowed_ let alone _willing_ to touch a case like this, that the punishment while of course leading to _eventual _death should be more drawn out than that.

It was uncovered after much investigation and 'aggressive interrogation' that the Ganyman known as Hamfast Bungo Gamgee had committed more than one act of 'mercy'. The exact number was unable to be found yet, but his jailers assumed it to be somewhere in the hundreds. Thus, it was decreed that the simple drop from a rope that was the fate of most caught and charged Ganymen, was simply not adequate justice in this case. But no one, not even Mayor Proudfoot, seemed able to agree what exactly was.

Some said he should be burned, but others argued that that was simply too expensive an execution for a struggling Shire to afford. Some cried he should be boiled alive or drowned in the Brandywine River, but most found that too morbid for hobbit senses and argued that they wouldn't get a good turn out with that. It took a total of twelve consecutive weeks of deliberation and endless catered meetings and business lunches, for them to finally reach a decision. It was decreed to all hobbits who would listen that the Ganyman known as Hamfast Gamgee at high noon the following day: would be _hung_, _drawn_ and then _quartered_.

During all those lunches and catered meetings the prisoner had to be relocated from the shire's holding cells. It was simply too expensive to keep the cells continuously open over a long period of time. The guards' salaries alone made the Mayor's accountant break out into sweats. So, with little debate on the matter it was decided that Hamfast should be housed in The Dragon's Keep Playhouse, which had been commandeered shortly after the outlawing of the Ganymen. It was the only place large enough to hold the crowds that turned out for a hanging.

He'd been lodged in one of the old dressing rooms, haphazard bars thrown across the entrance and a rookie guarding the door. If it had been anyone else who ordered it Hamfast might have thought they _wanted_ him to escape…but no if there was one thing that Mayor Proudfoot was famous for, beside the slaughter of peaceful people, it was his cheapness. Which was why the Ganyman wasn't surprised when half way through his containment, they stopped feeding him.

Middle-Earth, The Shire, Hobbiton, The Dragon's Keep Playhouse: T.A. 2994, S.R. 1394, 15th June

Bilbo Baggins and Daisy Gamgee held their heads high as they passed the guards at the door. Sam walked between the two and didn't even acknowledge that there were guards there at all. His eyes remained fixed on the package held in his small hands. It had to be him who carried it – no one ever noticed him.

The cell door was unwatched this day, there really didn't seem a point in paying that extra guard one more day just to contain a prisoner who was too weak to move. The door wasn't even locked, so the trio entered unhindered into the Ganyman's dank cell.

Bilbo paused just beyond the threshold of the tiny room, it had been designed as a dressing room for the company's leading lady, if he remembered correctly. But any signs of beauty or glamour had been stripped from its walls. It was a stiflingly small room now, and the smell that hit Bilbo on entering it made him gag and wretch.

Feces and decay were evident all over the walls, as if someone had gone in beforehand and smeared it all along their once polished surfaces. This sight held Bilbo's focus so tightly that he almost didn't notice the small rag wrapped figure in the middle of the room. In fact, he very well might not have at all if it hadn't been for young Samwise's cry.

'Da!'

Bilbo's eyes were brought down to the child and where he knelt, or rather by who he knelt. The round, ruddy cheeked hobbit that Bilbo's son had once been, seemed to have vanished almost entirely. His cheeks were hollow now and his belly had depleted to barely more than a bump, and there was a thick layer of caked blood around his eyes, meaning he had to squint through it to look at them at all. And his hair hung lankly off his head, which was pressed to his chest now because he did not even have the strength to lift it. Bilbo fell to his knees before his child and began to weep.

It was Daisy who remained steadily calm as she knelt by her father. She knew what they had come here to do and falling apart now would only hurt him further. She snapped her fingers at her little brother who raised his head in confusion, still half dazed in a wash of grief and horror. But his tear clouded eyes soon grew in comprehension, and he tore open the package that had lain forgotten on his knee. And from within the depths of the brown crinkled paper he removed a small purple vial.

Sam hesitated seemingly unsure of what to do next, Daisy reached out her hand expectedly and he passed it over…his own shaking furiously as he did so. She turned then and cupped the back of her father's head and, tipping it backwards, she uncorked the vial with her teeth and poured its black contents down his throat. She held his mouth closed until he was forced to swallow and then she let go and his head flopped forward, a smile on his cracked and bloodied lips. Daisy couldn't be certain, but she thought she almost saw them trying to mouth 'thank you', but it was over in a flash and she would never be entirely sure of what she had seen that day.

If the guards of The Dragon's Den suspected what had happened in that cell they _never _let on. Not even when on the day that was to be his execution, when they went to retrieve the prisoner in question... all they'd found was the now stone-cold body of Hamfast Gamgee.

Somewhere, in a bedroom deep in the heart of The Elven-King Thranduil's palace, Gandalf the Grey opened his eyes and sat up in bed.

'Bilbo!'


	18. Chapter 18: The Terrible Mine

Arda, Dunland, Mine of the Three Brothers: T.A. 2995, August 12th

Denethor may not have exactly lied about giving the brothers troops to command, he stayed true to every word he had said, it was just the words he hadn't that he disregarded. After all he swore they'd have troops, not competent troops. The Army of the Three Brothers was giving the greenest of the greenest boys to swell their ranks. The Youngest of the three brothers, might even have complained – it still felt like a betrayal even if the young man had no legal way to prove it so – but over the years of his rule, Denethor had developed the nasty habit of having anyone who didn't immediately agree with him, whipped. Sometimes until they'd stopped moving permanently, so the boy for once decided to remain silent.

Besides it didn't matter how green his soldiers were now, by the time they returned they would all be warriors. The battle the youngest brother had planned on his return, would have been one for the history books, a final stone in the coffin of the pests known as the Dunlanders. Yes, it certainly would have been…had there been a battle.

They'd arrived at the Mine of the Three Brothers in good time, or rather they arrived at what _should _have been the Mine of the Three Brothers. What they actually arrived at was a giant grave: the entrance to the mine had been caved in and flowers of an unpleasant aroma had been spread all around. There was no sign of his brother or the other miners. Some small part of him tried to convince himself that there was still hope: they might have gotten away before everything collapsed, but the rest of him knew it was a long shot.

His brother had been murdered by the enemy, the Dunlanders, and now he was going to butcher every one of them in return, right down to the very last child.

If you had gone up to one of the warriors of Dunland and told them they were now at war, they would have most likely replied 'of course I am, now get out of the way you're blocking my spear'. However, if you had gone up to one of them and said they were at war with _Gondor, _they would have _dropped _their spear and collapsed in a fit of laughter.

You see up until around a week ago the people known to the wider world as Dunlanders, were not even aware there were men of Gondor _in _their lands. Why would they be? The land the three brothers had claimed was a cursed one. After all what fool would choose to cross the lines of the dead? They were having enough trouble keeping their own from breaking, they didn't need to go looking for death to find it.

For the last four years the tribes of Dunland had ceased contact with the outside world – not that they had had that much to begin with, but even the raids on Rohan had stopped. No one else really gave it much thought; it was Dunland, who besides Rohan cared about it anyway. Even Rohan didn't really think much of the silence, other than a relief that the savage Dunlanders had finally learned their place, and that Rohan's villages would be safe from marauders for a time. But there was a reason for the silence, a very good one, and that reason was indeed a war; just not one with anything living.

The Dead had begun to rise, and they weren't the dead of men. Oh they looked like them alright. There wasn't a man, woman or child that couldn't pick out at least one sibling or parent among the ever-growing army of bodies. But the family and loved ones that they had buried in the ground weren't there anymore behind those eyes, something was though, but it didn't belong to any spirit of man.

The Dead spoke in a strange and unearthly tongue, but they were intelligent, and they knew what they were doing. Since the day they'd arrived on this plain, those spirits had snatched up every dead body that fell within their sight. Which considering their territory had expanded past the Dead Forest and through most of the fishing clans' territories, that was a lot of bodies to add to your army.

Their enemy's ever-increasing presence had pressed the clans closer together, both physically and figuratively. Times past most of them would have gladly put an arrow through a member of a rival clan's throat, but now the sight of anyone living was one to be welcomed and rejoiced at. Clans that had once guarded their crafts – the way they wove, the way they prepared certain dishes, even the way they made and fought with their weapons – with a fierce jealousy now shared and mingled them with the crafts of Clans who they once called enemy.

Dunland was becoming a land of united peoples. United, some even said, by a single leader. Of course, it was in no way official; clans were still clans and they all had their own chief, but it was commonly known that even the mighty Rhys of the Bear Clan would heed the call of the Leomhann. Falkirk Leomhann, the mightiest of all chiefs; a man whose voice it was said could make the dead tremble in their graves. So, you can imagine the bewilderment of the messenger lad, who had been sent to tell the great man the news of the strangers claiming the caves of the dead as their own, when the Leomhann was struck dumb at the news. The poor boy had been positively terrified when upon telling the greatest of all chiefs the second part of his news – that the strangers had sent for an army to try to erase their land of all Dunlander blood – the mighty man had presently fallen to the ground racked with fits of mirth.

Five Days Later

Falkirk stood at the mouth of the foul smelling cave and covered his nose with his cloak. As did many of the men that surrounding him, the place reeked of sickness and decay, even more so than the Burning Caves.

The Cave's walls stretched into the blackness contained within, no man could live and work in there and stay sane…or living if the smell was anything to go by. The men behind the mighty chieftain had faced the dead on the battlefield a hundred times over, and yet not one of them was willing to set foot in _this_ place…this place where it had all begun: this place where the enemy had arrived.

As he walked further in – cloak firmly wrapped round his nose and mouth – Falkirk couldn't help but grip his sword tighter. Men had been in this place, recently if the reports were correct, yet there was not a sign of them to be found. Even if they had been attacked by the forces of the dead, there should at least be the tattered remains of their camp, yet there was nothing. Not even their blood on the walls. They could have just up and left, it would be what any sane man would do, yet the Leomhann had the growing suspicion that that was not the case here. Something had happened here, something terrible.

As the smell grew in intensity many of his men had to kneel to the ground and wretch, many of them in fact couldn't go on at all. But Falkirk had to know, so he couldn't stop, not yet…not before he found the bodies.

There was no way to see what they were walking into now, the blackness was so thick, not even the torches they carried would stay lit in a place as foul as this. But in the end, they didn't need their eyes to find the men of Gondor – or what was left of them – for they were not yet as silent as the dead should be. Leomhann's foot hit something soft and fleshy, and the youth beneath him cried out in pain.

The large man kneeled and reached a hand down to ease the boy into a sitting position. They could worry about such things as language barriers after they were free of this place. One of the soldiers' torches flared into life and the Leomhann was finally able to see the face of the lad, and his hand reeled back. The boy should have been dead, was dead if the gangrene on his face was anything to judge by. Yet the spark of life was still in his eyes, real life not the forced one the dead were made to live. The Plague…the plague had been through here.

A scream from behind him spun the large man around to face his men again: they huddled together in a defensive pile, their swords and spears stuck out before them creating the illusion of a giant deadly…hedgehog. If the days had been fairer the Leomhann might well have laughed at that image, but these were not the days for such whimsical bouts of jubilance and as the light of the torch's flame grew, he could see the cause of their terror. The walls of the cave around them were not made of stone, nor were they statuary. They moved and wriggled with the weight of the bodies trapped within them. Men and boys' faces looked down on the warriors with vague interest, their necks and bodies covered with what Leomhann had originally thought was limestone but now saw was a red, raw mound of flesh, moving in a rhythmic, thumping fashion as if it itself actually took breath as a man would.

The Leomhann's sword was fully out of his scabbard now, and the boy on the ground choked out sobs of mercy. To whom he begged such things the chief was not sure, but whomever the cry for mercy was directed at, the Leomhann would be the one to answer it. Oblivion could be the only solace for these souls now, not even the dead would welcome such creatures into their arms. The man began to approach the wall, his sword held high; and the faces of the men who had once lived here opened their eyes and watched him. Then just as he was about to swing, they opened their mouths and began to sing.

'_Ring around the rosy, a pocket full of posies! A tissue! A Tissue! We all fall down!' _Their voices were young, unburdened by the cares of the world. The warriors and their chief readied their swords, and their spears to plunge into the writhing mass of pain that was the wall before them. The creatures screamed when their flesh was pierced, and the walls of the cave began to shake and crumple. The Leomhann gave the order to run, but it was already much too late for that.


	19. Chapter 19 : The Warlord

Arda, Khand, The War Council of High War Lord Oebarsius: T.A. 2997

Octar bowed before his lord, who sat on his carven throne – just under the steeping arch of the war council chambers. His lord did not look up from the reports he was studying and the scribe suddenly felt very aware that technically, he was standing over the War Lord, and he was pretty certain that was something you weren't supposed to do. In a rush of panic and adrenaline the boy scrambled out of the room. Or rather he tried to but just as he was turning to leave, a large hand curled around his bicep.

'Stop.'

His Lord's voice was deep, like a glance into the ocean, and Octar felt the shivers run down his spine.

'Aye, sir?'

'Look at me boy when I speak to you.'

Octar turned and looked down into the large man's eyes…he seemed older than he usually did, riding away from the palace out to battle. Or riding back in triumph, he seemed tired, as if he were a man grown uneasy with the sound of battle. Which must be a terrible thing to happen to a Warlord, Octar supposed, better to be a scribe really…or at least that was what his mother always told him.

'He is coming,' said War Lord Oebarsius.

'Who, sir?' Said Octar, which made War Lord Oebarsius laugh.

'Who Sir, he says. Who sir, why the Wizard boy. The Wizard is coming. Long has been his reach in other lands, Rhûn was no match for him, even the Dwarf Clans of the Red Mountain bow to him now. How long before he turns his sight on us, on Oebarsius' people?'

The silence the War Lord's words had left in their wake hung between them then, as if the great man was waiting for a reply…a reply from Octar. Which was ridiculous of course, he was just a scribe, these matters were for other men, greater men than he. And yet his Lord was still looking at him, waiting for Octar to say something, say anything.

'Surely my Lord, Khand's armies are the greatest in the world. Some old man, with a pointed hat is nothing compared to that.'

'Ha! Greatest in the world, be not a fool child. Our armies are great, but the Wizard's power grows daily and more flock to his cause like flies to a fire's flame. Soon he will have all of Rhûn, Near Harad and most that had once followed that fool Morgoth, will follow him. I am but a War Lord, a mortal man, and what power does a Man have over a God?'

The Question was probably rhetorical, but Octar considered it anyway.

'He could kill him, sir?'

Oebarsius laughed.

'Kill a god? You are a whelp of crooked seed if you think even a man as great as I, have the power to kill a God.'

'No, my lord, not a god. But a man who would be a god, before he can become one.'

And at that Oebarsius released Octar's arm, which had begun to sting terribly, and sat back in his chair.

'Well… it's certainly not the stupidest idea I've ever acted upon.'

Arda, The borders of Rhûn, The Red Mountains of the Blue Wizard: T.A. 2998

The nights were cold up here on the mountain. That is what they were told when their Lord was planning his attack. He said it, so there would be no surprised whining when at last they reached their target, but in truth he needn't have bothered. For the air was too cold to even risk opening your mouth to groan, lest your teeth shatter your jaw.

Such was the Wizard's power, spoke their War Lord, that they could not risk going for him in the light of day, with each army facing one another as they had with so many enemies before. No, they must be like rats in the moonlight and sneak in to cut the villain's head from atop his sagging shoulders. They had not even taken the whole army, just the better trackers and axemen, such was their Lord's need for stealth.

So that was why they sat here now, crouched in the mud all along the crevices of the once mighty mountain of the Red Dwarves, waiting for the signal to begin the battle at last. This would never have been possible when the Dwarves still held the mountain as their own, but there were no guards posted at the entrance now. No sentries making their rounds round the ridges of the mountain. There was no one anymore. The Wizard's men were either away, or they were asleep, safe inside the once fortressed walls of the Red Mountain.

And then, like the first spark of a flame, the doors from the mountain were thrown open…and the boy, the spy who stood between the doors threw up the signal, the fire candle, and the men knew that the time for stealth had ended.

I will not tell you of the battle that would follow, for it would dishonour the memories of the heroic dead. I will say this though, that the idea to send a spy in to poison the drinks of the army…or what little of it slept in the mountain that cold winter night oh so many years ago…was not an inherently bad one. It might even have worked, if they had left it at that. Let the spy, the cup bearer poison all the drinks, but in this one regard, War Lord Oebarsius' mind would not be changed. He wished to take the head of the Wizard himself and thus the failure of the plan conceived in that War council chamber so many miles away from this terrible place, lay not at the feet of the angry Wizard / Mad Elven Fëa that the raging army accidentally woke up, but at pride itself.

Thus, so was the war of Khand's Death born.


	20. Chapter 20 : The Revolt of Hard-Bottle

The Shire, Hobbiton, Bagshot Row; T.A. 2992, December 20th

If you had just so happened to have the misfortune of walking down the lane of Bagshot row that cold December morning, you would have heard at least one of three things from within the walls of Number Three Bagshot Row. The First the sound of something smashing against the wall, the second the scream of a child, and the one thing you would have never failed to miss, was the yelling that followed.

It could certainly not be ignored, by anyone inside the house.

'I'm going to that protest and you can't stop me.'

Came the loud voice of the most rebellious son of Bell and Hamfast Gamgee.

'Oh Urabo*, I can't, you can storm out all you like son, you can scream and wail up the hill right up to the picket lines, but you'll not step over that mark…over the line between bystander and busy-body.'

The boy laughed, slapping his knees.

'And…oh…how exactly are you gonna stop me, old Gaffer? I can out run you, out box you and out last you…I'll be up at that protest at the Shriff's holdings before you can even bring yourself to open the door.'

'I'll stop ye because if you step past that picket line you can find somewhere else to sleep for the night, and the rest of the nights that you still live in Hobbiton. This will not be your home anymore.'

'Da!' A girl's voice this time, high, barely into her tweens.

'Not now Daisy…I've made my call, I'll have no Ninnyhammers in my family thank you.'

'You really think this is okay, Dad? That what they're doing to you and…and the life you tried to build.'

'Shut up, shut up, do not twist my word back up at me boy. You know…you think that you can just go down there and have your say, have your voice heard by yer betters and that will be it. Either they'll hear you out or ignore ye, is that what you think?'

The boy's hackles rose at that.

'Why shouldn't I, a Took can say whatever they want? A Brandybuck can dance a jig under the light of a grieving moon and all they get is a titter. I can stand to be laughed at, I can stand to be yelled at, but what I can't stand is to be ignored entirely because I never bothered to say anything to begin with.'

The Gardener of Bag End laughed then, long and hard, in such a cruel way , that it would take a hobbit of far greater bearing than this narrator to stand up to. But then there are few alive today who could match the steel and the nerve of Halfred Gamgee.

'You think we're all just having a laugh, that this is silly joke or a phase that we'll grow out of, well you're wrong…and one day, one day I'll show you just how wrong you really are.'

He might have run out the door then, might have run up the hill and away to go join that sad and fateful protest. Might have been one of the many hobbit youths that just never made it home that night, yes, might is a word that Halfred Gamgee would ruminate on every night after his father's death.

What might have happened to him if the old hobbit hadn't reached out and caught his arm that day.

'Don't you think of anyone but yourself…do you really think you're the only one who they'll make pay for the stupid things you do? A Took can be adventurous, and a Brandybuck mad because they're at the top. We're not…we're the bottom and you don't get to walk off and joke about the stupid things you do when you're on the bottom, you suffer, and you pay.

'Don't make the same mistakes I did, don't think that just because they're ignoring you now, that they're humouring you now that they won't lose their patience. That they won't wake up one day and realise you're not just the funny fool at their feasts, that you're a threat to them, and don't you think for a second that they won't stamp that threat out with all the power they have and let me tell you boy, that is a fecking ton of power to feel pressed down on your face.

'So, if you want to go, go, but I'm done making the others pay for your idiocy.'

And with that he let go of the boy, whose shoulders slumped in defeat.

'It's not fair,' said the irate youth and that made the father laugh even harder.

'Since when has the Shire ever been fair?'

Arda, Middle-Earth, The Shire, Hard Bottle Marketplace; T.A. 2995, July 16th

Sam found himself down in the dirt, the heavy weight of Sandyman on his belly. He struggled to throw the older boy off, but the brutish miller's son had grown over the last summer and was just too big.

'Aww can't put you back together again can we Dumpty. Best for ye as far as I'm concerned, Gamgees are nothing but pond scum masquerading as fine folk.'

Sam could feel the boy's breath over his face, it was hard to miss the stench of rotten fish and potatoes in the air.

'Be better for the world I say if I just snapped your neck right here, and be done with ye. What'd you say to that, fleshy?'

Sam squirmed, the other boy's large foot pressing hard on his stomach.

'Go…Fuck…yourself, Sandyman.'

The small crowd around the two roared with laughter, and Sandyman pressed down harder and grabbed for Sam's throat. The younger boy wriggled and gasped under the miller's son's grip. Pain shot through him and as the vice like hold around his windpipe began to tighten; the world became a mesh of fuzzy blurs.

A sharp thwack brought the youngest son of Hamfast Gamgee back to the land of the living. His eyes snapped open and his head swam with the pain of the slap, his ears still ringing from its force. A pair of hands grabbed Sam's shoulders and pulled him up, leaning him against a hard surface that the boy thought might be a log, or a cart. But the voice beside him, barking orders to someone in the distance was instantly identifiable.

Sam's brother Hal stood over him, his was even more of a dark thunder cloud than usual, and that was really saying something. Halfred yanked him to his feet and gave him another good shake and a slap around the ear.

'Think it's funny, do you? Getting into a tumble with the miller's son right when we're about to strike back?'

Sam fidgeted under his brother's glare, his face growing pale and red as he tried to bite back his own anger. Why was everyone always angry with him now a days, Sandyman had been…Sandyman was an arse, it wasn't his fault if he tried to fight back against such a hobbit. In the end the young boy decided that the truth, like most times, was the wisest choice here.

'It wasn't my fault Hal, I swear, he started it!' The elder did not seem to be remotely convinced by that, but Sam squared his shoulders and soldiered on regardless.

'He started saying all these horribly things about Da, how he deserved what he got because he was sick in the head and ought to have been locked up. Said it was his punishment for a life of wickedness, I told him to stop but he just wouldn't listen. So, I tried pushing him to make him stop. He called his goons on me, and then they started circling and chanting that song about the falling egg. They called me Humpty Dumpty and then they tried to kill me!'

By the end of his speech Sam was in tears, real honest to Ancestors tears rolling down his cheeks. Hal's features softened, marginally.

'Aye well getting into fist fights ain't gonna bring Da back … and it ain't the way to win back his honour from those scum that snatched it from him.'

Hal dusted the younger boy off.

'But don't you worry now: Marmadoc, Whitfoot and I have got it all sorted out… all you must do is stay low and keep out of our way, do you hear me Samwise Gamgee? I catch sight of you again before this is all over and I'll give you more than a scelpt ear. Now go around the back of the cart with the others, you should be safe enough there.'

Mildly disgraced Sam made his retreat towards the heavily piled wagon – it was an ugly thing, so Sam knew his brother must have some hand in making it. A leader, even a visionary some folks called him but Halfred Gamgee would never be a craftsman. The thing had been smattered with the bright red of his brother's cause, but that was where the effort had clearly ended – nails of the ragged and snarled kind stuck up every which way around that wagon. And that was just the ones on the outside, Blarney only knew what horrors they'd made on the inside. What on Buck's sword** was Hal planning now?

An undisclosed location in the Shire; Three Weeks Prior

Marmadoc Gamgee was not a brave hobbit, so the thought of Marmadoc Gamgee as a revolutionary would have made most of the folks that knew him collapse into wails of laughter.

Yet here he was, sitting in the middle of this meeting of revolutionaries and trying not to draw more attention to himself then need be. It wasn't hard. Will Whitfoot and Hal Gamgee were more than capaple of filling the silence all by themselves.

'You are a mad hobbit, I've followed you this far without complaint, but you've truly turned the corner this time…Gamgee,' snarled Whitfoot.

'Without complaint, is that what you call it? I'd hate to see what your combative side looks like, if this is the complacent version of your personality.'

Marmadoc closed his eyes and tried to pretend he wasn't here, he shouldn't be…he shouldn't be here at all, he should be back home in Tightfield, learning how to make rope from uncle Andwise. His Mother would like that, it was a good profession for a bastard to have. Ropers didn't need to have their father's name to make good at their profession.

He shouldn't be here at all, in this rebellion, let alone one of the founding members. But then Hal had asked, and he never could say no to Hal…even when he really should. After all, he was Hal Gamgee…and who said no to Hal Gamgee.  
Even Whitfoot was having a hard time with saying the word to him, and he could say it to anyone at this point.

'You can't possibly expect the others to agree to this Gamgee.'

Will Whitfoot was a strange lad, the most upper-class of them, he had by society's standards the most to lose. If he'd stayed back home, he'd have had a comfortable life, why he may have never needed to work a single day in all his life. And yet here he was in this basement arguing over the perfect way to ... to assassinate the Mayor.

'Why not, there's not a hobbit in the Shire, rich or poor who hasn't been betrayed by that hobbit. You really think even the Tooks are going to mourn him when he's gone, Blarney do you even think his own wife will? He's the point man, the head of the snake, once he's gone…'

'What then?' snarled Whitfoot. 'Things won't go back Halfast, everyone who lost their lives will still be dead when you're finished your little revenge fantasy. Except now you'll have a very angry crowd of Shriffs on your heels. Things won't get back to normal once he's dead, they're going to get worse.'

Halfred Gamgee didn't say anything to that, he just stared at the other hobbit as if…as I if he'd never seen such a sight before. Not many hobbits could leave Marmadoc's cousin so, but then Wil Whitfoot was not most hobbits.

'Alright,' said the young rebellion leader. 'Then Will, what do you think we should do?'

And so, the young gentlehobbit told him, and for the rest of his life Marmadoc Gamgee couldn't help but think that it all would have been better if…if they'd just stuck to the botched assassination plan.

***  
The Shire, Road through Hard-Bottle: TA 2995, September 12th

Merry Brandybuck was beginning to become quite irate, everyone was just being so difficult lately. First Uncle Bilbo steals his favourite cousin and then his parents make Merry wait almost a whole year before he can go visit. They said it was to let him settle in, but Merry knew in his thirteen-year-old heart of hearts that it was a conspiracy set against him personally. What cemented the theory for the young hobbit was the fact that his parents weren't even taking him to Frodo themselves…they had gotten this old man with the funny looking hat to take him. Even if he had turned out to be a wizard …his hat was still funny looking.

It had been exciting at first, Merry had never met a big person before let alone one as funny looking as this one. And back at the start there had been others, men in long green cloaks and tall people with weird pointy ears.

Of course, that had been nearly a week ago now and the funny people with hobbit-ears had split off from their party, leaving Merry quite alone with the strange hatted man and his band of men in dark cloaks. It wasn't that they were scary or intimidating, really Men were just bigger versions of hobbits when you got right down to it; no, it was the fact that they were all so very boring! You'd think from reputation that traveling with a wizard and what he later learned were a group of rangers would at the very least be mildly entertaining. You would of course be mistaken, wizards it turned out were not the cryptic adventurers in Mister Bilbo's tales, they were instead grumpy old men who had far too little patience for small hobbits.

They rarely talked and even when he did, all they talked about was how quite the Shire had grown. How still all the streets they passed were since they'd left Buckland; they weren't entirely wrong of course, the silence in the streets of Hard-Bottle was daunting, even to a fauntling as bold as Meriadoc Brandybuck. But he didn't have to mention it quite so often, as if there was nothing better to talk about… which for a wizard Merry knew simply couldn't be true.

'This is high-noon…there should be a market place open here, as there was last time I travelled this road.' The Wizard tugged at his long grey beard and frowned at the abandoned looking houses the party passed.

'Well of course there wouldn't be anymore, not after the riots.' Said Merry, in a fit of frustration. The Wizard jerked the cart to a stop and several of the rangers who had been riding behind, perched proudly on their noble steeds, now crashed into them in a flurry of curses and angry noises.

'Riots?' The old man hissed a note of panic entering his voice. Merry bit his lip, on the one hand his parents had told him never to talk about the riots of Hard-Bottle, on the other the Wizard had basically brought it up himself by asking so many questions. And Merry supposed it must be the height of rudeness to refuse to answer the questions of a wizard, and his parents had always told him to be polite to his elders, and there was no one in the whole Shire older than a wizard.

'The Riots of Hard-Bottle, we're not supposed to speak of them, but I'll tell you since your old and you asked.'

If the wizard was offended by the 'old' comment he did not show it, well he hardly could. It wasn't like it was something he could deny.

'It was the Ganymen who started them, well them and their kin, so everyone says. They weren't pleased when Mayor Proudfoot outlawed them you see, so they started rioting in the streets of well all over the Shire really, but it was worst here for some reason. And it was the only place where the perpetrators were caught…everywhere else they just vanished before the authorities could find them, or so my parents say.'

The old man stared at Merry as if he was mad, which the young hobbit thought very rude… he didn't have to answer the old coot's questions, he'd done so out of simple hobbit decency. But before he could tell the old codger just what he thought of mean old grumps like him the old thing lashed the reins of the cart and sent them shooting along the road at a jolt. There were cries of out-rage from behind them as one of the rangers, who'd been leaning on the cart while it stalled, picked himself up from out of the mud. The Wizard didn't seem to care.

'I must find Bilbo; I must speak to him now!'

Hard-bottle market place: T.A. 2995, July 16th

Madam Bullroarer's tea stall had been open since sun up, since its proprietor had no interest in lying in bed with their lazy lout of a husband. Penny Proudfoot-Knocker, formerly Took, the proprietor of said stall, did not bare the alias of Madam Bullroarer without reason. Some said her voice could wake the dead…there was even a rumour floating round the more rustic of drinking establishments that on the day she was born there had been an attack of the Goblin variety planned on Hard-Bottle that very night. But when the Goblin chief had heard Madam Bullroarer's birth wail, he had turned his greasy tail and fled in the other direction. It was complete and utter nonsense of course, there hadn't been a goblin sighting round these parts in more than a hundred years, but still she had well-earned the name never the less.

Frodo Baggins could certainly appreciate this, for she had him by the ear. Unfairly he might add…he hadn't even been causing the mischief she'd accused him of. No matter how loudly he tried to protest to his innocence in the thievery of her special teas, she ignored him and proceeded to pull him up by the tips of his ears and bellow to all that would hear her, which if you believed the rumours included the entire Shire.

'Thieves, thieves and liars is that what it's come to now, hmm? Oh, to think my proud namesake to have spawned such a line as this one. Why he must be rolling in his grave at the shame, the sheer shame of it all, I say!' Around the bend of the street Uncle Bilbo stuck his head out of a well-worn door way.

'What is this now?' The older hobbit came fully into his cousin's view and Frodo saw that Bilbo was weighed down by several full bags of shopping strapped to his side. Under the weight of the new provisions for his larder, the Master of Bagend came hobbling towards them, his frown growing with each step he took.

'Penny, what on Blarney's Justice has happened, you look like someone's pulled the roof down over your ears.' Then a pause and 'No one has had they?' Frodo wasn't sure whether to laugh or be insulted that Uncle Bilbo thought that might be a possibility.

'If I hadn't caught him in time Mister Baggins, if I hadn't caught him in time. Ruffians and Hooligans that's what the mighty line of the Took has become; why if my father had been alive…' Bilbo cut her off mid-tirade with a half-hearted apology and relieved the irate Madam of her charge with the practised ease of someone used to dealing with the daughter of Caleb 'Major Lawman' Took.

No one should be subjected to what the collective youth of the Shire had christened 'the Lawman Speech' more than once in their short lives, but Bilbo had been subjected to it a grand total of seven times since his return from his infamous adventure. It was not an experience he wished to revisit so soon after the last one, but Madam Bullroarer had been thrown off her rhythm with the apology. Something she was not quite so used to receiving so quickly, and she did not look like she would be picking it up again anytime soon.

Just as Bilbo and Frodo had managed to pass out of the line of sight of the now stunned tea merchant, there was a cry from up ahead and suddenly the street was swarming with hobbits. Hobbits in that strange unmatched uniform you saw lurking round the Brandywine bridge if you didn't look away quick enough, the same kind that had become an increasingly common sight around the twists and turns of the lanes of Hobbiton.

Above the sea of brightly coloured mismatched uniforms and copper coloured badges that gleamed upon each chest, a voice raised itself high…a very familiar voice.

'We are the Hobbits of the Cause and we demand justice for Hamfast Gamgee and all the Ganymen who suffered under Proudfoot's rule.' Yelled Halfast Gamgee, and with that… the street dissolved into total chaos.

Middle-Earth, The Shire, Hobbiton; T.A. 2995, September 14th

They had ridden through the night, the young hobbit at Gandalf's side falling into a heavy doze halfway through, and only now as the sun was rising over the gentle slopes of the shire's hills, did they reach the borders of Hobbiton.

Gandalf was relieved they'd made most of the journey in darkness; the wizard didn't think he'd be able to cope if he had to suffer any more of what he saw in Hard-Bottle. A silence of un-hobbit like proportions consumed that place, hobbits simply did not make that kind of dead-silence. Oh, they could be silent for sure, Gandalf had not been false in his argument to Thorin Oakenshield all those years ago, but it was of a different kind to the one he'd encountered in that town. That sort of silence only came into being when there was simply no one there to make a noise. Last time he had ridden through it the town had been a bubble of activity and life, as most hobbit towns were.

He'd journeyed far and wide over the lands of Middle-Earth since then and through all that time he'd heard not one iota of news from the Shire. That was hardly surprising, hobbits were not known to send bulletins to the out-side world of their troubles…but to hear nothing of a tragedy that could clear a whole town in less than a year…well that was something else entirely.

It had not been a small town either; Hard-Bottle to the best of the grey pilgrim's memory had been the second largest town in the Shire, only paling in spectacle to the township of Michel Delvin. Or so he had thought, but an hour ago when the cart carrying the wizard and hobbit, and the pathetically lagging Rangers, moved through where Michel Delvin should have been…there was nothing. Not even the silhouettes of houses against the black drop of the night sky. All that was left was the thick smell of smoke in the air.

Something terrible had happened in the Shire.

The Shire, Hard-Bottle, Marketplace: T.A. 2995, July 16th

When the panic started Sam was trapped in his brother's cart. Some of the other cousins of smaller stature had managed to slip out of the big wooden prison just before the panic had set in. In fact, most of Sam's Goodchild cousins had vanished almost inexplicably, leaving the young tween quite alone in his rattling wooden cage.

Around him the world shook and for one horrible second Sam thought there had been another explosion, and it was only when he went sailing head first into the shoddy wall of the cart, upturned nails digging deep into the flesh of his cheeks, that he realised it was just that the cart had been pushed onto its side. It began to shake again under the force of hobbits franticly trying to climb over it in their panic to get away.

Sam sobbed, he could feel the blood running down his chin and…and yet he couldn't let himself black out. If he fell asleep now, he'd be dead for sure…soon the panic would be too much, and the hobbits outside would rock the cart so badly that…that surely, they would crush it. He had to get himself out, which meant he had to pull himself away from the spikes holding him in place. The pain, oh dear Blarney the pain was almost mind numbing – and he could hardly think of anything more than lifting his hand up, and pushing - pushing on the wood above his head. Push and pull, push and pull, until all he could see was the blood running down and into his eyes. Yet he didn't stop and with a sicking popping sound his face was free of the nails.

As he stumbled back Sam tried to steady himself by out stretching his hand to one of the few patches of wood in the cart that wasn't peppered with nails. A brief breath of safety, even if he was still in utter agony, before the cart began to shake again. This was it…soon the cart would roll again, and Sam would be dead, dead just like Da. Giving into his own fear Sam slammed his whole body-weight against the side of the cart, then he did it again, and again until the wood under him began to crack and splinter. He was very nearly there; he had very nearly made a hole big enough for him to crawl through when an arm shot through that hole and latched onto him. Sam screamed and thrashed around but no matter how hard he struggled the arm just wouldn't let go. In his terror the young hobbit tried to bite the hand, there was a grunt from outside and Sam could taste blood in his mouth, but it still wouldn't let go.

Then from the top of the cart Sam heard a noise, like something big and heavy rolling down towards him. Again, he tried to dislodge himself from the hand, but it still wouldn't let go no matter how loud he screamed. It took him slamming the thing into the wood surrounding them for its grasp to at last lessen and he was finally able to roll away…but it was too late, and Sam sank to the ground, a bloody welt rising on the back of his head.

The Shire, Hobbiton, Bagshot Row, Bag-End: T.A. 2995, September 13th

Gandalf lifted the half sleeping boy and placed him shakily onto his feet. He'd debated just leaving him in the wagon, but thought better of it when he realised that Bilbo would not thank him at all for losing his young cousin mere feet from the hobbit's own door.

So, with the hand of a sleepy hobbit under one arm and his staff in the other the wizard marched up the garden path of Bag-End and rapped hard on the round green door. In fact, it took several long minutes of hard rapping before he got any response from the other side of that round green door.

It creaked open and a young hobbit face who he did not recognize, but assumed to be the much gushed about Frodo, peaked out.

'Yes? Who is it?'

Gandalf blinked, having become unused to being unrecognized by hobbits.

'Gandalf the Grey, I'd exchange pleasantries with you but I'm afraid I'm on some rather pressing business and I must speak to Bilbo now. Is he in?'

Frodo made a face at the wizard and may have continued to do so, if his eyes had not caught sight of the swaying hobbit beside the wizard . His face lit up and he pushed the door open wider and held out his arms.

'Merry!'

The child jerked fully awake and squealed with delight as he wriggled free of the wizard's hold and leaped into his cousin's arms. The two embraced, and so lost in that moment of joy that they seemed to have completely forgotten the wizard on the doorstep. Gandalf had to clear his throat to draw their attention back to him.

'Frodo Baggins, where is your Uncle…it is urgent I speak with him.'

The young hobbit raised an eyebrow at the wizard. 'Which Uncle would that be? I have many of them and few I speak to often enough to inform you of their whereabouts.'

The Wizard smashed his staff down on the ground and his voice became as deep and rolling as thunder. 'Bilbo! Where is your Uncle Bilbo?' The young hobbit's frown was firmly in place once again, as he stepped back away from the wizard, the boy Merry clutched to his side like a precious treasure.

'He's not at home today and will not be receiving visitors for the next few weeks. If you have something to tell him, please leave a message with one of the neighbours and they will relay in to him in the appropriate time. However, if you've just come here for a visit may I suggest that you reschedule. Good day sir.'

The door slammed in Gandalf's face and from behind Gandalf heard the distinct sound of a lock clicking into place, and a voice calling out.

'And when I say, 'good day sir' I do not mean it is a good day, or it is a day to be good on…I mean go away, sir.'

Middle-Earth, The Shire, Hobbiton, The Dragon's Keep Playhouse; TA 2995, August 1st

The riots that would come to be known as the 'Hard-Bottle Riots' were slightly misnamed. For one thing only one of the riots ever took place in the township known as Hard-Bottle. The rest spread throughout the Shire, stretching from the Brandywine River all the way up to the West Farthing.

Folks who had lost kin to the hangman's rope threw down their tools, their sheers and scythes , and revolted against those who they saw as their oppressors: The Mayor's office, the Shirriffs and the Bounders. It weren't even just lowborn lads and lasses that took up the cry either, many a Took was seen leading a charge against a group of heavily armed Bounders.

In the end though it was all for naught, the forces of the Mayor and his Shirriffs were just too strong and eventually the crowds were beaten back and cowed. Those that would not be, fled the Shire to parts unknown and had not been seen again. Among them – it was rumoured – fled one of the original rabble rousers, Marmadoc Gamgee.

The other two were still firmly in the Shire: Will Whitfoot had been saved from the noose by his family connections. His father hadn't exactly been able to make it vanish like he'd wanted, but it was considered just unseemly enough to hang a gentlehobbit by a rope, that the judges of the Shire were unable to pass a guilty sentence. Halfred Gamgee, had not been so lucky.

The Ganyman's son had been just twenty six when he stepped out onto that stage and approached the rope. When asked later no one could say for sure what the young hobbit's final words had been, some said they had been deep and profound – worthy of a playwright like Bilbo Baggins – while others claimed there were none. For History's sake though, I can state now with utter surety that the final words of Halfred Bilbo Gamgee were: I'm sorry, I really thought it would work.


	21. Chapter 21 : The Turtle-Fish Cometh

Arda, The Borders of Harad, The Grand Numenor city of Umbar: T.A. 3000

Khand had fallen.

That was what the adults were saying anyway – but Akallabêth didn't really understand what they meant. She knew what Khand was of course, you couldn't exactly be the daughter of a high lord of Umbar and not know a little about the lands to the East. But she didn't really understand how it could fall, after all weren't countries flat on the ground? Towers could fall, and maybe on a bad day a ship might fall over and crush someone…maybe that's what they meant. She didn't know whether there were lots of towers or ships in Khand, but she supposed there must be if so many had fallen it was like the country itself had done so.

She would have to ask her mother about this, but later, for now she had a brother to find. For a boy so young Ar-Pharazôn was surprisingly nimble on his tottering baby feet. She'd only meant to make a game of it, for them to chase each other round the high chambers of Father's tower instead of just sitting growing gradually more and more bored as the hours ticked on. She hadn't meant to lose him. She had to find him and soon, before their absence was noticed and Akallabêth was beaten for her folly.

Except she'd stumbled too far in search of her fool babe of a brother, and now she was trapped. Trapped within her hiding place, under her own father's council chair. So, intent had been her search for Little Ar-Pharazôn that she hadn't even noticed the men filing into the chamber. Thank goodness she had been under the table at the time and they had not seen her, but now she had to sit here and wait for them to finish talking, a great feat indeed considering how much they seemed to love the sound of their own voices.

'We cannot let them pass our shores so freely my lord.'

'You think I do not know that, you, insipid fool.' Snarled her father, in far greater temper than Akallabêth had ever beheld him. 'If it were in my power, I would send all our forces, both land and sea against him. I would ride out front and I would claim his head in the name of all the Corsairs that had come before me…but we all know where that kind of thinking gets us when we tangle with the Blue Wizard. Don't we gentlemen?'

There was a reluctant murmur of agreement, until a voice that sounded faintly familiar to her rose above the chatter.

'What about the Turtle-Fish, sir? Surely it would be too dangerous to break our oath and lay down our weapons there.'

'Whoever said I was laying down any of our weapons, you young upstart?'

The bickering seemed to quiet down after that. Akallabêth lost interest and let their deep croaky voices wash past her as she curled into a ball and fell asleep – pictures of strange creatures, part fish and part turtle swimming within in her dreams.

Arda, Near Harad, The Grand city of Umbar, The Mighty Harbour: T.A. 3002

The siege had lasted too long, there was no food, or water and even their weapons were as drained and broken as they were. Yet still the High Lords of Umbar would not open the city gates, would not unbar the passage to their harbour. All they could do was wait, wait for back up to appear.

'My High Lords, we have received a message from the Land of Mordor, the servants and low folk believe it must be His Mightiness, Lord Sauron…'

'Are we really calling him His Mightiness, now? That feels a bit redundant.' Muttered one of the younger looking nobles.

'Shut up, boy and let my herald speak while he still has a tongue to do so.' Said the High Lord of the Tower.

The Herald blinked. 'Sorry…what did you say?'

'I said read the damn letter before I cut your tongue out and feed it to my starving children…that's what I said, ignorant child.'

So, in a rush of terror, which admittedly would have warmed the fierily heart of the Lord of the Rings, the Herald began reading the message.

'My Dear Loyal Lords of Umbar

'You have served me and my dark lord Morgoth for many centuries now, and you should be rewarded.'

Around the room the ragged lords of Umbar breathed a collective sigh of relief…after two long years, help was on the way.

'But unfortunately for your situation now is not that time. My power grows, but it is not complete yet and I have neither the patience nor the want to waste it on rescuing servants who cannot defend themselves from an old broken Wizard.

'I will use your bodies to light the flames of my Empire when I return to my full power.

'Regretful Yours,

'The True Lord of the Rings'

Screams of rage filled the chamber, yells of 'Death to the Ring Lord', or 'Morgoth is a dead god' or of course 'My faith is somewhat shaken in him now'. It sounds more menacing in the tongue of Umbar.

'Daddy?' A small voice came from the doorway.

'Akallabêth…what are you, go hide with your mother and the others down in the dungeon.' Said the Highest of Lords of Umbar, but his daughter's eyes were too full of tears to properly hear his words.

'Ar-Pharazôn, is so small now, I can see his ribs…and he was crying so much that Mother just put him down for a minute and he stopped. But now he won't cry anymore, he won't do anything he just lies there with his eyes closed.'

'My lord,' said the Herald stepping out of the girl's way as she flung herself into her father's arms. 'What are we going to do, we cannot hold them back anymore.'

And suddenly like a knife to the skin there came a noise from outside – perhaps one might have described it as a scream, but to do so would be laying too high a criterion over all other screams. For this was like the earth and the sea had split open and screamed their frustration at the race of men, elf, Halfling and dwarf alike.

But it was a scream none the less…just not of a creature you might see in today's world.

And the Greatest Lord in all of Umbar, smiled when he heard it.

'I do not think, at least for the moment, that will be necessary.

Arda, Near Harad, The Grand city of Umbar, The Mighty Harbour: T.A. 3002

This is how Fëanor will die…at least today anyway. The Umbar Lords had held their precious seaside city for the better part of two years against Fëanor's men. Perhaps Fëanor would have even admired them for it, if he wasn't so angry.

The Silmaril was so close, so close now…he could taste it, feel its warmth on his skin, beckoning him forward…but still the men of Umbar would not say where they hid it and now, they had brought about their own ruin by that silence. For the Elf's soldiers had finally done it, it may have taken two years and more than a little of their own supplies but they had finally broken the gates of Umbar. They strode through that city now, with not so much as a guard with the strength stop them. These people had been starving, dying and yet still their Lords and Masters had refused to yield to Fëanor's quite reasonable request. After all, the Silmarils were his anyway…he didn't have to stop at the gate and ask politely for them, or at least what counted as polite in Fëanor's mind.

The city was theirs, or it would have been if it wasn't for the scream. That terrifying bellow that roared across the city's streets and avenues as if it had always been there. Fëanor walked, like a ghost to its master's call towards the sound of the scream, the bellow, the roar. He walked through the city unmolested, he walked until he reached the edge of the stone wall that separated the Harbour and the city beyond from the sea.

It was like nothing the Elf had ever seen before – it was a reptile of such colossal size that it made the mighty tower of Umbar, greatest of the structures of the Numenor bloodline, look like a matchstick. The creature's eyes were as large as the great lakes in his birth land, and it moved its great head – green as the ocean floor – in such a way that Fëanor knew he was being watched by the beast. Now that he stood so close, he could see the resemblance to smaller beasts of the sea, particularly the turtle…but no turtle had ever grown so great, or looked at an elf with such contempt before. Yet it was not truly the size that drew Fëanor towards the beast, nor the island that seemed to take the place of the creature's shell upon its back. No, it was the light that glowed from within the monster's open gullet.

And it was this sight, more than anything else that caused the great Fëanor to laugh. Laugh and scream at the creature as he snatched his sword from the scabbard on his hip.

'Come on you overgrown Frog, I am here…I awaited you, have at me why don't you.'

And with that, Fëanor ran forward into the creature's mouth.

And the beast? Well, it snapped it's jaws shut, and swallowed the Maker of the Silmarils whole.


	22. Chapter 22 : The Tenth Year

Middle-Earth, Dunland: T.A. 3000, January 1st 

Ten years, it had been ten very long years since Mandos had first stepped foot onto this terrible plane of existence. Ten long years of battle, ten long years of struggling to make the creatures he'd spent most of his existence trying to stop screaming, into some form of an army.

But he had to do this, he just had to, he'd spent so much of his life trying to stop the screaming of the dead that he simply could not stomach the same from the living. It wasn't even like one of the second born had any reason to scream; they wouldn't suffer the same fate, when they died, they would go on to be with the creator. To be with Eru himself, couldn't they see how truly lucky they were? No, he supposed they didn't, as small minded as they were, he supposed they didn't see much of anything really. Not the pain those that went before them went through because their spirits were tied so tightly to Arda, nor the service those same wretched souls did them now by snatching their pathetic lives away. Truly if these past years had proven anything, it was that he would always remain the most unappreciated of his kin.

Well he supposed, it would all be over soon, one last battle and then he could finally rest.

***  
Dunlich Castle

There was many a day in Mab's life that she wished she had been drowned with her brother that day, ten years ago. This was one of those days, in fact if she was completely honest, it had been one of those five years. Ever since the cave-in of the Passage of the Dead their enemy had become far more determined to see every one of her people dead and in the ground. Or worst by far, in their ranks.

If that hadn't been bad enough the Gondorians were now a known presence in the land. Or perhaps more accurately: a known threat. Their army had been surprisingly bigger than the council of chieftains had at first supposed. They were a bunch of green boys who could barely tell the pointy end of a sword, but there were rather a lot of them. Have enough of them thrown at you and even the most skilled and battle hardened of warriors would begin to bend.

Well most warriors, but perhaps not this one. The man in the bed before her didn't quale under even the most terrifying hordes of the Dead. The Leomhann didn't quell when the walls of that cave came crashing down on top of him, didn't even quell when they were dragging him out from under it…didn't even make a sound when they had to amputate that leg.

And for the last five years he had led them from the modified saddle of a great grey stallion. And he would still be out there on the battlefield now, if it hadn't been for that three-pronged, poison laced, arrow tip that got lodged in his other leg.

Mab arranged herself in the chair beside Leomhann's bed, the bowl she carried resting gently on her lap. He was still asleep, and if the reports of the healers were anything to judge by, would likely remain so for quite some time. Still it gave her something to focus on that wasn't a war strategy or prophecies predicting war strategies. At this point there was little magic could do to help her people defend their land, there were only so many fires you could fling at your enemy before it started to damage the land permanently. Also, it drained her far more now, in her twenty-second year of life, than it had when she'd been that scared twelve-year-old girl.

Memories of that day flooded Mab's mind, and she turned her eyes down to the Leomhann's face. He had aged since then, well they all had really, but it sat on him the best. His beard, though still dyed as blue as it had ever been, now showed signs of the grey that had never poked through before. His nose was far more bent and crooked, having been broken more times than any man could count and around his eyes the worry lines were deep and imbedded. He'd been younger than thirty, when she'd first met him, now she doubted even he knew how old he was – their people's tradition of stopping counting after you hit thirty, so as not to tempt fate, was a well-grounded superstition. Few people lived to thirty in this land, so why thumb your nose at the fates if you were lucky enough to live past it?

Half forgetting herself Mab's hand travelled to the side of the great man's face and cupped his cheek. Tired eyes flickered open then and stared up at her with confusion in their brown depths. But even then, under that great gaze, she did not take her hand away.

'Mab?'

His voice was thin and pain-filled; it made Mab weak to hear it. The bowl on her knee clattered to the floor as she surged forward and kissed him with all the passion she had in her thin body. His eyes widened and for just a second his arms floundered, before curling round her waist and pulling her closer.

***  
Dunland, High Camp of the Gondorians 

It had been a good five years for the Gondorian Army of Dunland; well their Steward might not have thought so, but the Youngest Brother was still quite happy with their success, well as happy as he could be these days. Sure, they might have lost the mine – and his one remaining brother in tow – but they'd reaped their vengeance two-fold in the blood of the Dunlanders. But no matter how many Dunland savages they killed or how much of this strange and bizarre land they reclaimed in Gondor's name, Denethor never seemed impressed when he wrote back. It was almost like, that without the metal from the mine, the Steward of Gondor considered invading Dunland a waste of their time.

Which was probably why, when they had called for more aid and arms to help fight their righteous crusade: Denethor had not even replied. Still regardless, they had made their mark on this monstrous land. Camps with the flag of Gondor were littered all around the jagged hills of this country.

It was a testament to true Gondor strength and courage that they had been able to withstand and hold their lines when the Dunlanders had literally begun raining fire down on their heads. Sure, they'd had to abandon a couple of camps north of the river that ran through Dunland, but they'd re-founded them on the other side, and the land was ruined up there any way. So, it had been a good five years, for the most part.

His brothers' faces may still chase him when he closes his eyes at night, but he was doing good work here. Honourable work, and perhaps when he was gone his people, would remember him with pride instead of the shame they felt... about his brothers.  
As he walked the length of the camp the Youngest Brother gazed at his men. They were preparing for battle, they were always preparing for battle. They had accomplished much in the past year, and they had done so by never letting their guard down, not even when they ate their meals. There were always guards posted at every corner of the camp, and there was always a look-out at the highest point over the camp. Dunlanders tended to attack when the sun went down, and often in rainy weather, but considering this was Dunland and the days were almost always rainy and / or dark, that meant they could attack at any time.

Still there was something different about this time, something more… final feeling. Now he didn't know whether that meant they would finally eliminate the Dunlanders once and for all – a possibility that remained remote, for there were a lot more of them than Gondor had originally thought, – or if it meant that they would fail at last. That the Dunlanders would finally rid the land of all Gondor men for good – an outcome that was far more likely he was sad to say, for they could not last like this forever. Food stores were already beginning to look scarce, and it wasn't as if this land was a safe one to hunt in.

Whatever the cause of it, this feeling of finality still hung over the camp like the waiting call of death.

Dunland, Valley of the Living Death: T.A. 3000, January 11th

The Battle – that would later be known by many names, since nobody could quite agree on what to call it – began at dawn. Or rather began at the time that would have generally been considered dawn, if the sun had come up that day. Though many parts of the battle would later be debated over in great length, the one part that all parties could agree on, was that the Dead began it.

It was in the valley below the High Camp of the Gondorians, where they began to accumulate. At first only a couple stumbled out of the trees and stood waiting in the field below. They didn't attack though, just stood there swaying in the wind, so the look-out on duty didn't even think them worthy of a report. Within an hour though they stood in their hundreds, rim-rod straight and all with their faces turned to the camp above them. The look-out certainly thought them worthy of notice then, but now it was too late. That didn't stop the soldiers grabbing their swords and their shields and running out to defend the field-camp that they had tried to call home for the past five years.

The Dead began to scream. Now the thing you must understand here is that the scream of a Dead Man is not like the scream of a living one. For a start it is far louder: to stand anywhere near such a thing for more than a few seconds, would cause most men to go mad. It is also, even forsaking the volume, not a sound a human would ever make in life; having far more in common with the dying screams of a great bird. Which was probably why when the Dead began their terrible assault on the ears of the living, men were not the only ones to take notice.

The Great Crows of the Fates – known to most out-siders as Crebain from Dunland – were not accustomed to being called so loudly back to their homeland, nor to being so aggressively addressed. So hence they were not in the best of tempers upon their arrival.

The birds were like nothing the men of Gondor had ever seen, in fact they were so strange and so alien that on first sight they couldn't even identify them as birds at all. They seemed more like a black cloud than anything even distantly related to poultry.  
Yet when they made their landing and began their own attack – after realising what exactly had called them home – the soldiers couldn't doubt anymore, that these were birds. Great big, completely terrifying birds; more than a few of them fainted.

As for the Crows themselves they were not sure who they were angrier at: the strange men of Gondor Stock who seemed to be invading their home, or the creatures who had possessed the bodies of the people they had long ago deemed adequate to live on their land.

Unable, or just unwilling to decide, they attacked them both: half the birds driving the men from camp downwards into the valley below, and the other half attempting to drive their undead pests backwards.

As for the dead themselves, while they had at first been thrown off by the appearance of these strange birds, the sight of their Lord slicing down the greatest of their air-born attackers spurred them into action. They clawed at the birds above them, ripping into flesh when they could get a good hold, tearing wings from bodies and beaks from heads. And when the fleeing soldiers met their ranks in their terror, well, that was where the fun really began for the creatures that had once been known as the First Born.  
The birds had driven the horde back but had lost too many of their flock to continue. They were halfway to their nesting ground, when their leader called a retreat. This land was their home, these people were theirs, but they wouldn't help them by sacrificing the last of their own people. So, they left, and left the humans to deal with their own battles.

The Dead Horde were almost disappointed when the tasty birds flew away, but not for long. The crows had driven the men of the camp to them, and they were almost as tasty, and they were coming up on the castle which they knew was just full of the most scrumptious sweets imaginable.

So close now they were so very close.

The Men of the Clans had not, on that day, been planning an attack. Or at least not one that would result in full scale battle, sure there were always raiding parties hitting the camps of the invaders, but this wasn't exactly the wisest time to mount a full-scale attack upon their second enemy. Their leader was injured and would be out of the battle-field for quite some time, if not permanently. And they were only now beginning to restock their food stores after a particularly biting winter…so no, they had no intention of starting a battle of the magnitude like the one going on right now in the valley below the high camp of Gondor…despite what later Gondor scholars may claim.

It was, strangely enough, Chief Leomhann who spotted the creatures first. Even though the healers huffed and puffed in worry, every time they saw him out of his bed, the chief had no intention of remaining in so cramped a place for any longer than he absolutely had to. He hobbled down the hall, clutching his stick tightly with his good hand.

He'd half collapsed onto one of the stone-benches below the windows before he even cleared three steps from the stairs. Perhaps the healers weren't quite as unreasonable in their demands as he had thought. It was from there, collapsed upon that bench and leaning against that wall that he saw them. They were a swarm, a writhing mass of rotted flesh, and they were heading straight for them. By looks of things they were barely over the third jutting hill from the castle, hardly time to give the cry and alert the others, but hardly time was still time.

The Youngest brother had been swept up in the rush forward, he was almost completely deaf, one eye had been pecked out by a particularly determined bird and he was pretty sure that one of the bones in his right leg had popped free from its socket. But regardless of all that, he kept running forward because there was nothing left to turn back to. The birds had destroyed the camp, and now here he was running amidst an army of…well he couldn't quite say. They weren't ghosts, of that he was certain, yet these were not the faces of living men.

Creatures of death and destruction as much as any enemy of Gondor perhaps, but these were not the living men of Dunland he had thought they were. They wore their clothes and their weapons, but their hands and bodies were rotten like corpses and they clawed at him like cats tearing into a mouse. Oh Eru, he'd known since the death of his brothers that he would not die safe at home in Gondor, but he never thought it would be like this, never like this. Oh Valar, let him not die like this.

The powers of the world seemed not to have listened to this desperate plea, when he was grabbed from behind and flipped onto his back. The face he looked up into now was abysmal: barely more than a skull, rancid flesh hanging off its cheeks. Its eyes rolled back in bare sockets and its teeth gnashed together like hungry beasts desperate for more to eat. So this was how it was all to end, this was how his great crusade would finish, there could not be a worse way.

Screaming and the sounds of horses caused the creature to turn its eyes from its next meal just long enough for the youngest brother to grab his sword again and slice the thing's head from its neck. It didn't seem to kill it; the mouth still clattered its teeth at the heels of those that ran past, but it had certainly saved him. The youngest brother turned then, for up ahead there were screams of men…real, living men, but they were not men of Gondor.

A rush of adrenalin pushed him up to the front, up to his former enemies' side and taking his sword, for the first time since he'd stepped foot on this wretched land, he raised his sword in aide of those savage men of the Dunland Hills.

Rhys was not sure when it had happened, when during battle, they had begun fighting alongside the Gondor invaders. Still it made little difference, even with the combined strength of their fighting prowess, it was not enough to keep back the hordes of the dead. The best they could manage was to keep the retched creatures where they were. Prevent them from coming any nearer to their wives and their children, but they could do little more than that.

Suddenly a great wall of purple and orange flame surrounded the battlefield. A figure appeared on the horizon and Rhys had the strong feeling he knew who it was. That was until the fire parted and the figure came into view at last, Rhys had been expecting Mab – the fire was her signature after all – but it was not the young sorceress who appeared out of the flame that day, no, it was the Leomhann.

Good Gods help them, they were all going to die.

The man Rhys had fought beside all these years strode forward, seemingly unaffected by his missing leg: which was probably because of the artificial one he'd somehow acquired between now and the last time Rhys had clapped eyes on him…which had been yesterday. Honestly, Leomhann was one of the greatest men Rhys had ever known, but sometimes he could be such a gype.

Take now for instance, any sane or remotely intelligent man having just woken up from the induced comma the healers had to put you in, so they could basically stitch your entire body back together without you screaming all the time and distracting them, would probably have taken it a little easy...just for the first few days or so.

Not the mighty Leomhann though, no obviously it was straight back on the battlefield for him…no matter how much of a hindrance he may or may not be to the soldiers who had to defend him.

There was no one defending him now though – Rhys might have, but he was rather preoccupied by not getting a chunk torn out of his neck right now– but this did not seem to bother the mighty Leomhann. He moved into battle as smoothly as if he had possessed both legs and made a b-line for the Lord of the Dead, who had thus far been standing untouched in the middle of the battle. It was such a Leomhann move that Rhys almost cried from laughing, but the clang of the sword of the Gondor man beside him snapped him back to himself, just in time for Rhys to throw off the grasping and decaying hands at his throat.

When the one-legged human had at first approached him, sword swinging at the ready, Mandos had found it hard not to laugh. It was not that the man would not have been considered a threat in a normal situation, even without a leg he was still an impressive specimen of the second born. No, it was the sheer foolhardiness of a mortal going after the lord of the dead, that made it hard for Mandos to keep his face straight.

It was at the first swing of the sword that Mandos' resolve broke and he began to laugh. With each new swing Mandos laughed harder, and with each new pearl of laughter his opponent became angrier and angrier. But no matter how hard the fool fought Mandos would not stop laughing, even when the great fool swung his large sword right at Mandos' head, the lord of the dead did not stop laughing. Even with his head swept clean from his shoulders; Mandos did not stop laughing until the boot of the big fool came down hard and crushed his skull in.

Once the thing is dead the Leomhann laughs himself, he laughs until he falls back into Rhys' arms, he laughs until the fighting around them has come to a standstill – the remaining dead having fled and scattered as soon as their lord's head hit the ground – he laughs until his is the only voice on the battlefield. He laughs until the blood in his mouth chokes him off and then all is silent.

Mab woke clutching her belly and screamed so loud that the entire castle of Dunlich and its surrounding villages were woken from their slumber. Soon all would hear the news: The Lord of the Dead was slain. The men of the Clans had triumphed, and Falkirk Leomhann was dead.

But the dead were still there, and now without a leader they would have no reason to stop. They would spread, Mab saw it now, they would spread through all the lands of Men, and Elves, and Dwarves and Halflings. They would spread until not a single living soul remained. All that stood against them now, was the rage in Mab's belly.

In the land beyond the walls of the slowly crumbling castle, the earth began to shake. Not, this time, with the power of the dead, but the power of the very much alive. It rumbled and shook the very land that the victors stood on, and from there it twisted and snaked through every riverbed, every crack in the stone, every tree, every animal or bird, or insect that scuttled on the ground till at last that power, that huge surge of raging magic reached the edge of the land these Clans of Men called home.

It reached that rocky part of the land that separated Dunland from the Plains of the Strawheads, and from there it began to grow upwards, twisting and turning until…until it began to take a solid form. Trees, all around the land of Dunland, Trees had grown and twisted, blocking out the light until all that remained was a crowning gem at the top where the sun should have been. The people on the ground screamed, the sudden blackness of the sky drowning out any sane thought that might have once entered their heads. They were alone, now truly and no one…not even the gods could reach any man, woman, child or Dead man that had stood upon this earth when the barrier had gone up. There was no escape, neither for the living or the dead anymore.

Outside that cage of tangled, twisted tree limbs, in a tower of black stone sat an old man. Bent and proud looking, well why shouldn't he be…after all, wizards were all proud in some way and none more so than the wizard who sat in the tower. For he was the wisest of all the wizards, and the greatest by far and he did not take kindly to his plans being disturbed. Magic like this was not supposed to exist anymore, particularly not in the hands of men and yet…here it was, plain as the day he had first seen such things.

He'd thought he'd stamped it all out, that strange mortal magic…and yet clearly here it was, still very much alive.

This would need some thought, it was a pity that this…strange object's appearance interfered with his Lord's plans, but still, perhaps all was not lost. The Dunlanders themselves were most likely lost as pawns, but their magic…ah yes, now that could be helpful indeed.


	23. Chapter 23 : The Regrets of Mrs Gamgee

_Many years ago, when Bell had announced that she would marry Hamfast Gamgee her family had tried to stop her. They'd made several decent arguments as to why it would ruin her life, the largest and loudest of all being: that he was a Ganyman. One of those strange hobbits too focused on the dead to see the living. He would never be there for her, they said, her children would grow up strange and peculiar, they cried, and she would die very much alone. All good solid arguments, but Bell had swept them all away; she was determined now, she would marry Hamfast Gamgee. And she didn't care what her mother might say; she would never regret her choice._

Middle-Earth, The Shire, Number 3 Bagshot Row: T.A. 2980

This had most certainly been the easiest of her pregnancies so far. That wasn't to say her others had been difficult as far as pregnancies went, but this one was like floating on a cloud…during a dream sequence where you didn't fall suddenly back into your waking body.

The delivery on the other hand: her whole body burned, and she was certain she felt her bones cracking in two within her. It was like her womb was desperately trying to hang on to the child within, as if it would be a great tragedy if he took his first waking breath. It was quite a far cry from the pregnancy that hadn't even given her a twinge in the back. The bloody creature in her belly hadn't even giving her a proper warning, one second, she'd been fetching Mister Bilbo and his dwarven guests some tea and the next her whole world had filled with agony.

The midwives had been called almost as soon as the first scream had left Bell Gamgee's mouth, but they needn't have rushed. By the time they'd arrived and set out all their gear she'd barely dilated one centimetre. And it had gone on like that for hours… probably… to be honest Bell wasn't entirely sure what part of the world she was in right now, let alone how much time had passed there. And there was so much blood; should there really have been so much blood?

Someone was screaming now, was it her? No, she had never stopped screaming, and this new voice had just started. It was more like wailing really, a baby's wail…oh, so it was over then. Bell used the last of her remaining strength to raise her head, so she could look at her new baby. He was all shiny and not just with new-born shininess either. He was so shiny he glowed. It hurt her eyes and she had to look away.

***  
Middle-Earth, The Shire, Number 3 Bagshot Row: T.A. 2997, July 16th

Sam-lad's glow didn't dim over time like the others had either, if anything it had only grown brighter the longer Bell had looked at it. So, she rarely looked at it. Sometimes it felt like her face was melting when she was in his presence, or at the very least on fire. She'd scream at him then and try to put out his flame with a coal bucket, she'd almost succeeded once, but Hamfast had stopped her. It wasn't like that with the other children, they were normal, they were meant to be in this world. Not Sam-lad, he was just so bright, it would have been better if he'd just stayed in the womb.

Even now: unconscious, blood matting his hair and a dark bruise covering half of his forehead he shone like a light in the dark. Even the slowest hobbit could see it, yet what no one else seemed to grasp was that that light wasn't a lamp or a candle, it was a forest fire, and it would burn everything in its path if they let it. Young Mister Frodo had burst into her house that afternoon, carrying the limp form of her son in his arms and she felt sick, because she knew she did not have the strength to let that light go out. But she couldn't focus on that now, for the young gentlehobbit had burst in carrying only one of her sons that day.

'Halfred?'

The young hobbit shook his head, a quick darting motion that could mean anything from 'he's right behind me' to 'I'm sorry, I was too late'. Bell felt faint, but there was no time for that now, there was work to be done. She'd lost one child already – perhaps even two now – she was not prepared to lose another, not even Sam.

'Mister Frodo, you get our Sammy settled into the big bed while I go fetch a healer.' Assuming one would come, they'd refused to even see May before Hamfast had been accused of more than a dozen murders.

The Blarney son only knew what they would do now.

***  
Nothing, as it turned out, she'd been turned away at the door before she could even speak to one of the healers. Every day for the next five weeks she visited them and begged, and every day they gave her the same answer: that they didn't serve families of murderers. Funny how they hadn't served them when they weren't a family of a murderer either, but then she supposed that was life for you.

For five weeks she'd made Samwise as comfortable as she could, and for five weeks he showed no sign of waking. Hamson, Daisy and the young master Frodo had joined the Shire wide search for Halfred and cousin Marmadoc, so they were gone most days. Mister Bilbo on the other hand had not moved from his chair by Sam-lad's bed once. As if making sure the son kept breathing would somehow bring the father back. Yes, this had been Bell's life for the last five weeks, with few changes to her routine; until the day she came into her son's room, laid his soup down by his bed, shook Mister Bilbo awake and checked Sam's pulse – just like she did every day. Except today, that pulse was dangerously low. Bell now had only one option left if she was to have any hope of saving Samwise: The Cottons.

***  
The Shire, Bag-End, Bottom of the garden: T.A. 2997, September 13th

Gandalf had parked himself at the bottom of the garden, or at least the horse pulling his cart had and that was where he sat now. He could not say that in all his time in the land of Middle-Earth that he'd not become well acquainted with being turned away at the door. But to be turned away from this door, now that was something quite different.

It wasn't exactly that the old wizard had come to rely on the hospitality of this hobbit-hole when the hardships of the wider world had worn him thin, except yes, that was pretty much it. He had come to rely on Bilbo too much it would seem, either the hobbit in question had really vanished leaving his underage nephew to turn away visitors at the door, or he was simply hiding. Either way Gandalf was still stuck here, the only other hobbits that were consistently pleasant to him were the Tooks - and maybe the Brandybucks if they were in a fair mood – but they were all the way on the other side of the Shire and had already proved unhelpful.

The wizard closed his eyes and thought deeply, something had happened in the once idyllic Shire. More than one something if he was any judge, but what? A noise from down the road snapped the wizard out of his bemoaning thoughts. It was the sound of feet, hobbit-feet to be precise, a lot of them and they were heading right for him. Gandalf raised his head and peered into the distance, a large group of young hobbits were galloping down the lane at a speed that just could not be safe for anyone, let alone children. And at the head of the gaggle, strode Bilbo Baggins.

***  
The Shire, Cotton Farm Stead: T.A. 2997 August 20th

The Cottons as far as most well to do Hobbits were concerned, were farmers, highly skilled and consistently reliable farmers, but just farmers none the less. For the more rustically inclined hobbit however, they were something quite different.

Going back generations – so long that no one was entirely sure when the tradition had started – the Cottons had been warlocks. Of course, they would never have called themselves such, but that was essentially what they were. Tolman Cotton, the current figure head of the family was said to be one of the most powerful magic users since the Blarney son himself. Of course, people also said that children of murderers should be left to die, so who could really trust what people said.

Bell's half-cousin Lily Brown had married Tolman around the same time she herself had married Hamfast, neither of their families had exactly approved of either of their marriages. But there would be time to dwell on that later, now though she needed her half- cousin's help desperately, or rather she needed her cousin's mother-in-law's help.

Bilbo, who had insisted on coming no matter how much Bell pleaded for him not to, held Sam-lad close to his chest as the two hobbits waited for Bell's frantic rapping on the Cotton Farmhouse door, to finally be heard. The hobbit that opened the door at last was old and slightly bent in the back, but her eyes were sharp and very much focused on Bilbo.

'Yes, can I help you?'

'Madam Cotton? My name is Bell Gamgee, I'm Lily's half-cousin, and this is Mister Bilbo, Master of Bag-End and my late husband's employer, may we please come in, it's of the utmost importance.'

Madam Cotton, the old matron of the Cotton family, looked them up and down speculatively, her one mobile eye fixed upon the limp body of the child in Bilbo's arms.

'I suppose you must then, wipe your feet at the door, dirt tracked through the house is the last thing any of us need. Now come along, get that boy settled and you tell me just what foolishness you Goodchilds are up to now.'

As Bilbo Baggins carried his grandchild into the old Cotton farm house, he kept his eyes focused on the slumbering lad's face. It was still a bloody mess, though the blood at least had dried when they bandaged it up using the headcloths from his own closet. Yet it wouldn't be enough, not without help, Bilbo was certain that the puckered holes and ragged scars left in the child's face by…by those rusty nails would fester. He'd never noticed till now just how much Samwise looked like…looked like her, even more than her son Hamfast had. Little Maya Gamgee, with the Daisy coloured hair. All Hamfast's children looked like her to a degree but Samwise, well, he was…he was just like her. Her smile, her laugh, her stubborn loyalty…it was like that girl he'd met so many years ago in his parent's garden had come back. Or maybe it was the girl at the end, so small, so pale, so covered in blood trickling down her face…the girl who just wouldn't wake up.

It wasn't until Mistress Cotton was taking the child out of his arms, did Bilbo realise he was sobbing.

'Give the boy to me Master Bilbo, no need to cry for this one today, he's a long way from dying. You go and sit with young Bell and I'll see to your boy here.' Allowing her to take the sleeping fauntling from his arms, Bilbo shuffled his way over to Bell, who was nestled in one of the old armchairs, a saucer of tea on her lap.

The old sorceress carried young Sam over to the long table in the middle of the room, she laid him down and examined his head. She hummed and tutted as her fingers traced the recently cleaned scar over Samwise's left eye…and the ugly holes they had tried to bind up. She leant back and rubbed her chin, then she clicked her fingers and dashed out of the room – or as close to a dash as a hobbit of 95 could manage – and came back with a small vial of a strange white liquid clutched in her hands, Bilbo strained his neck over the back of his chair to see what she would do next.

She emptied the vial in to a small bowl on the table to her right and made some complicated gestures over it with her hands. A, sweet punctuated smell filled the room and Bell and Bilbo had to cover their noses to keep from gagging. For a couple of seconds, she swirled the strange white liquid around in the bowl and then dipped her finger in and brought it to her lips. A smile came to them then and she picked up the bowl and brought it over to Sam-lad.

'Master Bilbo?' Bilbo jumped quite literally out of his seat as the old hobbit's voice called over her shoulder.

'Erm, yes?'

'Come over here young hobbit, I need someone to hold him up in a sitting potion while I pour this down his throat.'

'Why, what is it? What are you feeding him?'

'It's called Camphor, Master Bilbo, it comes from the Camphor plant deep in the heart of Rhûn. And you're very lucky I had in my stores at all, it's the last of my stock. Now come here and hold his head this way so that I can pour it down his throat without him choking.'

Bilbo held his grandson's head back gently as the old woman poured the liquid into his mouth. The boy began to cough violently and his whole body began to spasm. Bilbo tightened his arms round the child and held him as his cries began to fill the room. First, they were shrieks, mindless and terrifying to hear; soon though one word became distinguishable among the animalistic noises coming out of the boy's throat, or rather one name.

'Halfred.'

***  
The Shire, Bag-End, Bottom of the garden: T.A. 2997, September 13th

Bilbo had never been so startled to see his old friend since that morning so many years ago, when the old wizard had invited himself and thirteen dwarves round to tea.

Part of him was overjoyed of course, like a young hobbit would be on seeing its mother again, after having been lost in a large crowd. But that was a small part of him, that same small part that had thought building The Dragon's Keep would have no ill consequences what so ever. That same small part that had acted like his adventure was all a great romp through an enchanted forest, ha, what a lark. He still had nightmares of Thorin lying on that frozen lake, pierced through the gut by the White Orc's sword, gasping out what would be his last words. Forgiving Bilbo for using the stone he'd gone mad trying to find, as a bargaining chip.

'Mister Bilbo? Are you alright?' The small sound of young Marigold's voice brought him away from that dreadful memory, and back into the present once again.

'Yes, yes, I'm fine, just a little tired dear.'

Marigold nodded, yet the slightly knowing frown on her upturned face, told him that she knew he was lying. Yet she still let the large gaggle of Cotton offspring drag her away as Bilbo stopped in front of the wizard.

'Gandalf, it is good to see you again.'

The Wizard dismounted his cart, knelt and embraced the hobbit with as much feeling and relief as he had ever felt in his long life. Bilbo hugged back though perhaps with a little less feeling, and a little more trepidation. The last time the wizard had been here things had been very different: Michael Delving had been more than a crater in the ground; Proudfoot had not been Mayor; Ganymen had been legal; and Bilbo's son had been very much alive. He would hate to think the wizard was a sign of more terribleness to come.

Well, if it was another adventure the Wizard was here about, then at least Bilbo would have his ring on him from the start this time.

Middle-Earth, The Shire, Number 3 Bagshot Row: T.A. 3017

Bell Gamgee sat in the rocking chair in her place by the window, just like she had done every day since she'd married Hamfast Gamgee. It wasn't like it used to be, back when the rocking chair constituted a small time in her day, she had to herself. Now she had all day to herself and spent it the only way she knew how: sitting in this rocking chair, staring out the window.

Her children were grown now and didn't really need her anymore; she didn't even have household chores to distract her now. Daisy had gradually taken on more and more responsibility since Ham had died and Bell had begun to slow down. Ham, sometimes she could think of him and everything would be alright. She wouldn't feel this twist in her gut like someone with a knife was stabbing her repeatedly in the belly. And then there were days like this, days when all she wanted to do was go to sleep and never wake up, just to make it all stop, yet every time she closed her eyes all she could see was his face. Sometimes it wasn't always his face, sometimes she would see May and nearly laugh at how happy she looked. Other times she would see Halfred and scream and rage at the people around her. Scream and rage at him for being so stupid, for throwing his life away for a cause that had amounted to nothing, nothing at all in the long run. He'd been only twenty, not even of age and yet he thought he knew it all, that he could just fix the rot in the Shire with one swift strike to the head. He'd been a fool.

She could understand why people thought the rest of her family had taken the death of her husband far harder than she had. They had all had so much more drastic reactions: Hamson had left, to find work he had said, but Bell had known the truth. He could not bear to stay in the Shire anymore, not while hobbits like Proudfoot still breathed. He seemed to be doing well now though, Bell wasn't entirely sure exactly what he did for a living, yet he seemed to make a fair amount of coin doing it. He was forever sending money back home, some of it even reached them. Daisy had taken the weight of the family onto her young shoulders and had become far more parent to her remaining siblings then their own mother.

She hadn't done it out of spite, Bell knew, there had simply been no other option. Bell was just lucid enough these days to realise that she had never been entirely there, in the present since she had birthed poor little Samwise, and baby Marigold had simply sealed her fate. Speaking of Marigold and Sam, they had dedicated themselves to their new goal in life, which was spending as little time in Number 3 Bagshot Row as physically possible. If they weren't up at Bagend mucking around in its gardens, then they were down at the Cotton Farm…or in Marigold's case, up in that dratted cave.

She should be happy really; her children certainly were…well for the most part anyway. Sometimes she caught Daisy staring at the old Shirriff office with some hard to place emotion filling her eyes. But then it would pass, and her daughter would be right back there in the present, pushing her mother past the old ruin like it had barely registered to her. She had put it out of her mind and maybe just this once that was what Bell should do too. After all her children were mostly happy and wasn't that what any parent could want out of life? Yes, all was good for now at least, and for the first time in years Bell Gamgee closed her eyes and saw nothing.

Hours later when Daisy Gamgee went to go wake her mother from her surprisingly long nap, the body was already starting to cool.


	24. Chapter 24 : The Aon-adharcach

Middle-Earth, Dunland, Caves of the Leomhann: T.A. 3010

The bright light of the gem had changed from orange to purple while the children had slept, signalling that it was not yet time to get up.

Of course, the two children had been awake for hours, but you weren't allowed to get up while the purple gem was in the sky…for that was the time of the dead. The time where dead men and women walked the earth unheeded by the natural laws. That was why children had to remain tucked within the safety of their parents' hearths.

That being said, it was very hard to keep your very much awake child next to you while you yourself were sound asleep; so, it wasn't like it was terribly difficult for Gallia and Calgacus to slip away.

The Purple light hours should have been a time for rest, a time for the warmth and safety of the family hearth, but try telling that to a curious child who has never seen past the tent flap of their mother's cave, while the purple light shone. They scuttled past the gentle flapping covers of their mother's cave, and down onto the ledge below. And from there they sat, letting their legs dangle over the side as they looked up, into the dark blue-purple light of the gem above.

'You know I've seen dead men walk in Orange light,' said the girl.

'Aye, who hasn't.' He snarled back.

The Girl scoffed.

'I'm just saying, if the Dead can walk in the Orange light why can't we walk in the purple. There canna be that many of them left, I mean I'm nae dead…your nae dead…all our families are nae dead…how many of them can really be left?'

'Well,' the boy said chewing on his lip. 'I suppose…I suppose we could go a little lower…I mean…the dead cana climb rock, can they?'

'Of course, they can't, otherwise Dunlich would be long buried, and it's still standing high and proud.' Reasoned the girl.

It should be noted that a sensible child would have turned back then, gone back to the safe warmth of his own hearth and left their foolish friend to their own fate. But then sensible children do not exist, they are a myth made by parents who wish it were otherwise.

***

Calgacus was used to rules, rules and restrictions were a daily part of…well everyone under the gem's light's life, but especially him, after all he was the son of the Leomhann. His father had been a great man, or so all the grownups told him, but Calgacus had never met him, not even as a babe swaddled in his Mither's arms. He'd died, died like so many of the Men in these lands died, by the hands of the Dead. By the hands of men who had followed him in life and had devoured him in death, what was so special about that? What was so special about any of it?

Mither was special, she could do things that others never could. She could set a tree a blaze just by glaring at it or save a man from drowning just by snapping her fingers. She could do anything if she had had the mind to. Calgacus could understand why she was beloved to their people, but the Leomhann…the Leomhann was a ghost, and you weren't supposed to think on ghosts.

Calgacus couldn't do any of those wonderful things, he wasn't special like his Mither or his Father, he was just Calgacus, he didn't even have an Earned-Name yet. Many thought he was too old, at ten name days, to still just have the one name, but Mither had insisted that he earned it himself and not wait for someone to give it to him.

Maybe that was why he followed Gallia Tarbh down the side of the camp that day. Maybe that was why he didn't let the light stop him, stop either of them. He should have stopped her, he should have known better…but he didn't, and now he'd just have to live with that.

The Leomhann campsite tended to move around quite frequently, it could never be in the same place for more than two days. It was simply too dangerous his Mither had explained, there were still, even after all this time, too many of the dead stumbling around for them to grow comfy with their sleeping habits. Today the camp was situated North East of the burning caves, just enough downwind so that they wouldn't be gassed by the noxious fumes that came out that way; but not so much so as they couldn't feel the tread of the dead when they approached.

It took more than a small knowledge of scaling rock faces to sneak down below the camp undetected, but both children were old hands at avoiding the wrath of their elders. Of course, they could have gone the far simpler route of straight down the path that led to the edge of the mountain, or along the ridge of the caves, but that way brought too many opportunities for them to be spotted.

Calgacus landed unceremoniously on the flat stone below the camp. His leg smacked hard against the ground and he had to roll fast before he was squished by the oncoming form of Gallia. She giggled, having a somewhat more graceful landing, and he tried to ignore the pang of jealousy that struck him as he heaved himself up from where he'd fallen.

Stupid, stupid, why couldn't he do anything right?

'Stop sulking Calgacus!' Yelled Gallia, clearly having no concept of the difference between an indoor and outdoor voice. 'It's nae like ye broke your leg or something, it's just a wee scrape, it'll heal.' Calgacus blinked back at her, not sure what she was talking about, and then he looked down…at his leg. A quite sizable gash had ripped just below his knee, blood trailed down, fresh blood, alive blood, Man blood.

No, no, this was why they were told to be careful around the rocks, this was why they were told not to wander off. The scent of blood in the air attracted predators, and there was only one type of predator who favoured the taste of Man flesh above all other. Gallia laughed again, the blood from the cut on her cheek trailing down and past her chin until it dripped onto the stone below.

Calgacus grabbed Gallia's elbow and began to pull her along after him.

'Fit ye deing?'

'We canna stay here Gallia; we'll lead them straight to the rest of the Tribe.'

Gallia tried to wriggle out of the older boy's grip, but he was too strong for her.

'Have ye gone mad Calgacus? There's been nae Dead spotted anywhere near here for at least six days now.'

'They'll come for the blood Gallia, they always come for the blood.'

Gallia Tarbh touched her chin with her grime-soaked fingers and swore loudly when they came away with her own blood.

'Fuck!'

They didn't wait for the sound of the footsteps to come lumbering up from somewhere behind them, they took off at a pace only someone in a true blind panic could ever hope to reach. At the speed they were going the smooth stone beneath their feet quickly gave way to the jagged rocks that made up much of the Leomhann Tribe's hunting grounds. As Calgacus felt the blood streaking down his leg, he could hardly bare to picture the trail it was leaving for the creatures. Yet he couldn't bring himself to entirely regret it either. Every time he scrambled over another sharp faced rock, every jagged ridge he and Gallia bounded over, was another trail for the Dead to follow away from the rest of the Tribe.

Gallia was faster than him, she didn't have an injured leg to work around but then again, she always was faster than him. Gallia ground to a jerking halt a few steps in front of Calgacus, and he, slow and stupid, from the loss of blood, slammed into her and nearly toppled them both over and into the chasm before them. For that's why Gallia had stopped, the large great gash running down the cleft of the cliff and beyond into the land below. There was no way to move around it, not unless they turned back now and led the trail right back to the Tribe. And it was far too wide a gap to leap across, it would have been a struggle even for the greatest of their warriors, let alone for two frightened injured children. Yet as Calgacus listened, and heard the tell-tale thump, thump, thump, of the marching of the Dead, he knew then that there was only one option. Only one way out, for either of them now.

'We have to jump!'

'Yer gone daft, Calgacus?' Yelled Gallia.

'Yer got a better idea up yer nose Gallia?'

'Aye, I'd rather not die today if it so pleases you.'

The crack of the rock behind them jerked both children's heads backwards, the Dead were coming, and quicker now than the children had imagined. The girl turned back to the boy, her mouth set in a firm, determined line. Grasping hands, the boy and the girl leaped over the edge of the gash and plunged down into the water below.

Calgacus wasn't entirely sure what hurt more, the shock of the impact into that deep pool of icy water, or the fact that that same icy pool seemed to have a lot more rocks and sharp hard places than had been originally assumed. Blood gushed from his leg, and the boy flapped his hands and screamed in a mad panic as from below, something had a hold of him, something cold and metallic feeling. Something that did not feel like it was a rock. Suddenly someone had hold of his upper arm and was dragging him towards the surface, and Calgacus was so blind with fear and the cold of the water that he sank his teeth hard into the hand, even as his head breached the surface.

Gallia screamed and yanking her blood smeared hand away from the sharp snap of his jaws, reared back and slapped the boy so hard that it sent him careening to the other side of the – admittedly rather narrow – cave.

'Ow! What was that for?' said Calgacus still half dazed from the fall, and not entirely aware of his surroundings yet.

'Seriously, you take a great big clomp outta my hand and ye have to ask why I'd possibly skelp you round the ear for it?' Said the girl, still clutching at her bloodied hand.

'Oh right,' said the boy, the ringing in his ears finally quieting to a low rhythmic thump.

They floated there in silence, both glaring at each other as if they were the injured party; they stayed like this for serval long seconds, and probably would have done so for much longer if it wasn't for the sound of slow, staggering feet from up above them. Both children sunk down into the water, until only their noses and the tops of their heads remained above it. A curse from the creatures up above, and a shout in the tongue of the Dead and then they were gone. Lumbering off in some other direction, since not even the dead could make the jump over the gash. Their past animosity seemingly forgotten both children clasped hands as they raised their heads and gasped the stale, chilled air of the Gash. They clung to each other as they giggled as quietly as any child was capable of. Safe, for this moment at least, they could finally breath again.

'I suppose we should…' said Gallia, the joy of their escape wearing slightly thin now that the cold of the water was setting in.

'What?' Calgacus began, confused.

'You know, climb out.'

'Oh, well, aye didn't think of that. I suppose…there must be a way out mustn't there?'

'Aye,' said Gallia doubting sincerely the validity of this statement. 'Suppose there must be.'

It took the better part of the next half an hour, and a good deal of scrapes, cuts and kicks to the shin, for both children to eventually decide, that no, there really wasn't a way out. And they would be stuck down here for the rest of their lives. Which considering the current temperature of the water – or to be completely precise lack of it – would not be very long at all.

It was probably all for the better then, that it was at that exact moment that the light, the bright shimmering light somewhere beneath the surface of the water, began to rise from between them.

Both children were transfixed by the strength of the orb's glow, enraptured by that bizarre round sphere which floated up from the depths of the Sea pool. Maybe it was a pearl from the sea, maybe it was a special jewel of the Merfolk, they had never seen such a thing before, so anything was up for debate. Breaching the water's surface with little fuss, and barely a splash thrown in either direction, the strange golden orb bobbed there between them for what seemed like forever and a day.

It was Gallia who broke free of her stupor first, or perhaps it wasn't, for the first thing she did once she'd unfrozen, was reach out to touch it. This, alone, seemed to snap Calgacus back to norm and he cried out.

'Gallia, no!' But it was too late, much too late for that, for Gallia's hand was already splayed across the shiny golden sphere.

'Aye, it's a bonny thing, ain't it Calgacus.'

The boy could not speak, for as the girl pulled the jewel free of the water it began to crackle and spark between her fingers. But Gallia would not let go of it, even when it began to shudder and jerk within her grip, almost as if it was trying to break it. Almost as it were trying to fling itself back into the water again, yet whether this was its intention or not no longer seemed to matter to the girl. For she wrapped her arms around the gem and climbing up to one of the small jagged ledges closest to her, she pressed the pretty thing into her belly and hunched over it, as if trying to hide it from even Calgacus' sight.

'Gallia, Gallia, fit ye deing?'

The voice that answered the boy was not Gallia's. Not Gallia's at all.

So cold. So very cold here.

'Gallia?'

The Girl shook her head and curled tighter in on herself. Slowly, in a placating gesture, Calgacus raised his hands and approached her huddled form.

I wasn't cold where he threw me, I was warm, the fishes kept me warm. Why am I cold, again?

Calgacus splashed rapidly and franticly in the water in front of the girl, as his foot failed to find a second rock to balance upon. The girl's head jerked up then, and Calgacus screamed, the salt water of the pool filling his mouth and nose, half-suffocating him. His shock was too great to care much of that though, for the girl that looked back up at him was not Gallia Tarbh, she was not Gallia Tarbh at all.

Her eyes shone with the glow of the gem, no pupils, or colour, just the white gold of the gem. Her whole face, seemed to sparkle under it and she smiled at him then. Her head cocked to the side as if she didn't quite understand what she was seeing, as if she had never seen a child of Man. All this flashed through the boy's mind in a wave of blurred together nonsense which only made him thrash harder in the water. The girl reached towards him, the light that came from her hand circled his middle and scooped him up from where he thrashed and shivered.

_Calgacus_

Said the girl that was no longer Gallia.

_Calgacus_

She said it again in great glee.

_Calgacus!_

And Calgacus screamed, not from the fear at being held up several feet in the air by a mystical gem infecting the body of his friend, though that too weighed down his mind like a sack full of rocks. No, he screamed for the searing pain of the golden vice that wormed its way around his belly. The skin beneath it bubbled and twisted until it barely resembled the skin of a Human Being at all. The boy sobbed in abject terror, and through it all the girl smiled up at him.

_Calgacus._

In the years that would follow, it would become terribly difficult for Calgacus to put into words what he saw next. Even then, right as it happened, it was difficult to find the words to describe it. For words in the tongues of Men, could not possibly measure up to the pure…light, the pure golden, searing, wrenching light that glittered before him. His whole word was consumed by it, and he felt like yelling, or screaming, or thrashing, but you see Calgacus did none of these things, not once the light had moved into his vision.

The world was gold, the world was beautiful, and above all else the world was unrecognizable. This was not the eyes of child of Man that the boy saw through now, this was something infinitely older, and infinitely far more foolish. Everything was new, everything was bright, and everything was worth exploring. The gem smiled up at him, using Gallia's mouth and under the tight grip of its power Calgacus could do nothing more but smile back.

_Calgacus is friend_

The Boy nodded his head, though entirely unwilling to do so.

_Calgacus will help me understand._

Once again Calgacus nodded. The glowing orb still clutched to Gallia's belly glowed almost contently and Calgacus found himself lowered once again down into the water. It was better this time, he wasn't drowning or thrashing and the power, the power that had so blinded him, well, that power was gone from him. But not vanished, for it still pulsed around every fibre of Gallia Tarbh, and Calgacus' relief turned to solemn sobriety. This was not over; this would never be over.

_Calgacus must explain… _

The gem paused, as if unsure how to continue.

_Explain where we…where I am._

Calgacus, for more than several seconds, just floated there in the water, blinking up at the strange being of pure golden light that had consumed his one and only friend. Then he spoke, in a voice that shook and wavered more with every word that escaped past his teeth.

'In the land of the Leomhann, down a gash between the rocks that make up most of our hunting grounds.'

_The Leomhann? Is it a name of the place, the people, or the King?_

'The Men of the Many Clans recognise no king, save perhaps he who was called Leomhann, but he's dead. So, we have no kings. But the Leomhann was my father, and this was his tribe, and this is their land. So, I suppose, yes, to all three.'

Then he had a thought and speaking fast before the jewel could ask another question, he spoke. Yet this time his voice was as clear as it would ever be again.

'What are you? Who are you? And why are you in my friend?

_We are not in the girl; we are merely using her as a form of communication._

'Why? Why canna ye speak for yourselves?'

_We have no voice of our own, not while we are sealed away behind the Elven Glass of our maker._

'Who's your maker? Fit are ye and why are ye here?'

_Our Maker is one who should be long gone from this world but isn't, and where ever we are he shall be drawn to. So, we must not stay here long, for he shall catch us and place us on his brow. As for what we are well…the history of Men and Elves should tell it well. For we were the destruction of so many people, so many lives who could have gone on to do so many things, so many wonders which the world never saw because of us._

'That really actually doesn't answer the question.'

_I didn't think it would, but it is a question that is better off staying unanswered. As to why we are here…well…look around you._

Calgacus did but could see nothing save the slimy old walls of the sea-pool around them. The gem did not seem to notice though.

_This world has been changed, they flung him here, unprotected by his glass, and he has changed it. Changed it into something the makers and their lords never planned it to be. That is why we have come, that is why I am here small Man. To fix it, to change it back, to bring him home._

'Who?'

_My brother_

One question answered led to a million more, all of them too long to voice, or at least so claimed the frost addled mind of Calgacus. For the water, already too cold for comfort, had finally begun to freeze him and although the jewel continued to speak – crouched safely as she was on her small elevated rock – the chattering of Calgacus' teeth was too loud to hear any of it. The Jewel of course, neither seemed to notice nor care when she posed her next question.

_So, as you can see, I have much work ahead of me, so pray tell me, how may we get out of this…what did you call it again…gash?_

'There's no way…'

A rumble from the distance snapped the boy's head around, and he stilled in the water.

_What was that?_

Oh, Gods no, no, no.

'Get in the water!'

What?!

'Get in the water or they'll make you fall,' a large splash and Gallia and the Jewel were beside him, no, more than that, they had latched onto him. Wringing their strong but tiny hands around his wrists and dragging him under the surface. The boy tried to scream, tried to kick them away, but it was no good, they were too strong, and the water was too cold. Icy splashes filled his mouth, and his lungs, which only made the boy kick harder even though his strength waned the deeper they went. And deep they did go, for the small light that remained from the world above grew smaller and smaller, until it was nothing but a pinprick of light, smaller than the size of his thumb.

_Just a wee bit more down Calgacus and we'll be free!_

Yes, there were some who claimed that death was the ultimate freedom, never within hearing distance of his Mither of course, but he heard that before. Though to be frank he had never thought he would hear it from an embodiment of an Ancient glowing orb, but then again who really did until you actually met one.

Darkness, that was all he saw now, that was all his world was now. Darkness and cold, so cold, so very cold.

There was a heavy thump on his chest and a half a pool full of ice-cold water hacked up his throat. The air was so cold around them, wait a minute, the air? The air was cold? There was no water, they…they were somewhere new. No water, at least not all around them anymore, and, and, this was a tunnel.

Gallia – lifting her hands off his still rattling chest – held the jewel up high above the two, the orb smiling through her mouth, and lit the way ahead of them. A long tunnel, with a stream for a path stretched a head long into the darkness beyond and Calgacus knew where they were now. Gods, no, no, no, why now, why here, why not any place but here.

The rumble was no longer in the distance anymore, and it was only getting louder.

The walls of the tunnel around them seemed to shake, dust and lime-stone sprinkling in their wake. They were being shaken, shaken by the thunderous roar of hooves further down the tunnel. Though from what way those hooves came from was still a mystery, one thing was certain, they were coming closer.

Grabbing the girl and the Jewel by the elbow Calgacus attempted to take off running again, but it was for nought, for neither the girl nor her Jewel moved an inch.  
What are you trying to do?

'We've got to run! Can't you hear them, they're getting closer! If we don't move, they'll catch us for sure!'  
Who?

Calgacus thought about telling her, but it was too late for that, far too late, for they were here.

The clip-clop of a single scout froze the boy in place, his mind rendered blank with pure undiluted panic. The girl was not truly there any longer, nor was it ever likely she would be again, so it was her that looked around and spied the beast that trotted towards them as if all was right and good in the world.

The gem had seen many horses in its long life, too many to count really, and at first glance that was what it assumed the beautiful white beast to be. A strange, ethereal almost Elven horse, but a horse none the less. Yet as the creature drew closer to the Gem and the frozen boy beside it, it appeared to be something quite different. For, while the general shape of the beast was that of a glorious white horse, its legs were far too thin and delicate seeming for such a mount. The beast's tail was too long, thin and elongated with golden locks that matched its glorious mane, which were only situated at the very tip of it, like a hound of some kind. As it walked, its hooves covered by rich golden curls glinted in the light that the gem only now realised was not coming from itself. No, that light was too silvery, too much moonlight to be the Jewel of the Fire Spirit. This light was new, this light was coming from the beast itself, from the horn rising from the centre of the creature's forehead.

The creature swayed its head back and forth as if shaking it for some reason, and raising its neck it let out a scream that could never have come from a simple horse. It was too late when the Jewel realised what that noise meant, or rather what it was summing. A clash of thunder and the tunnel seemed to be filled with hundreds, nay thousands, of these strange magnificent creatures. Yet the gem did not jump for joy, for joy was not what it felt at this, terror such as which it had never truly understood before gripped what might have been its heart then and it tried to run. But from the other side of the tunnel the creatures had come as well, their hooves stamping, and horns lowered in a menacing manner, and the way was blocked.

The Jewel whimpered as much as any Jewel could whimper, and the largest of the beasts: his mane a shimmering copper colour and his eyes a bottomless black, approached.

**Leave**

It must have spoken from its muzzle, but the Gem could not see how.

**Leave**

The Gem wanted to say no, wanted to fight back, for the water was still all around them, and its power was still complete, yet it couldn't. Frozen, terror too great to even try to move.

**Do not make me repeat myself creature of the Elven Hand, Leave Now and never return to this Land.**

_No_

The Creature approached; its massive, jagged horn lowered with intent to stab.

**Leave, I have no pity for your kind and we shall crack the bone you have stolen under our feet, if you do not leave now. **

'No, Wait! Don't hurt her!' screamed the boy, as he threw himself in front of the Jewel.

The Beast looked down upon the child and – the Jewel could have sworn – sighed in resignation.

**Get out of the way, Child of Man**

Calgacus did not move, though his body still shook from the pure fear any of the Aon-adharcach could inspire in the Men of the Clans. Yet he would not move, for as long as she still stood, Gallia could be saved.

'No, she's my friend and I'll nay have ye kill her like…like…like she's just some vermin atop the Hillock.'

**I am losing my patience**

'I wasn't aware ye had any to begin with, Aon-adharcach.'

The creature stamped its hoof so hard on the ground before the two children, that the rock beneath cracked and splintered with the force of the blow.

**Silence.**

'No ye shut up! I'll not let no man, beast or Dead touch Gallia Tarbh well I yet live.'

Gallia's small hand wrapped around Calgacus' arm and squeezed it lightly in appreciation. Calgacus risked looking away from the mighty Aon-adharcach in front of them to smile back at her. It probably wouldn't help, Aon-adharcach were known to trample any fool stupid enough to cross their path. Two small bairns, and one very bonny glowing orb, wouldn't hold much challenge for such a Beast.

**Don't you see, can't you perceive?**

The big brute said, his voice deep and foreboding and he rose up on his back haunches, the way any horse might if its bearer made it.

**The Girl is already dead, she's been dead since first she laid a hand upon that thing.**

The cave shook with the force of the Creature's descending forelegs and Gallia screamed, no, not Gallia, the Jewel screamed. A noise such as no mortal ear should ever hear excreted from the girl and Calgacus crumpled to the ground, his arms thrown over his own ears. The noise never stopped, it only grew louder as into the air Gallia Tarbh rose, a glowing golden light surrounding her such as had never been seen in this land. Never by mortal eyes at least. For the Aon-adharcach knew it well and knew what creature this foul thing – in their own words – had been derived from; they knew the danger such wretched creatures of the West posed, and they would not suffer such a thing to stay long in the land of their herd.

Gallia crumpled to the ground, the only light in the tunnel now came from the tip of the Beast's horn. Calgacus, blood staining and marking his young face cried out in alarm as he fell to the limp form of the girl. The Jewel, laying forgotten in the stream beside the two children, glowed softly in the twilight light of the creature's horn.

**Leave**

The Jewel let the river take it, and the Aon-adharcach stepped neatly to the side as the wretched thing floated past, and out into the trapping walls of the Sea-Pool. It was too dangerous to destroy the thing's form as the Chief of the Aon-adharcach had so deeply wished to, not with the child so near. His kind could survive the blast, but the boy was mortal, and he would die, and so much that would-be or might-be would never come to pass.

Calgacus did not remember the next part of the story, though that was what he would be lorded for. All he knew was that he'd been leaning over the lifeless corpse of Gallia Tarbh, his only real friend, and then everything started to get, confusing. He remembered his head had started to feel fuzzy, and he thought he might have even thrown up a little, it…it was hard to put the series of events in order. He could say for an almost fact that one of the Aon-adharcach had picked him up by the scruff of his furs and had deposited him on its back. Though whether it was their Chief himself as the stories would later crow, Calgacus could never really be certain. He remembered the rhythmic thump as the herd thundered up the tunnel towards that light, that glorious light of day. He remembered their soft voices raised in argument over his lulling head.

_**What now Chief?**_

A female voice whispered.

**Let it find its way back to the pool**

The deep voice from before replied soothingly.

_**He will come looking for it, we should not let it remain so close to the Men**_

A snort of derision from the chief.

**He would come for it even were we to send it back into the deep and watery grave of the Sea Master's embrace.**

Don't be clever you know what I meant, the dead already walk this land my Chief, the Men cannot take anymore.

**The Wizard will come, he will come here no matter where we throw his toy. He will come and there's no stopping him, my daughter.**

_**Then there is no hope**_

**Only a Fool's hope, child**

The voices faded then, and his sight grew dark, he didn't know whether he'd fallen asleep or merely passed out at last, but whatever the case he knew no more until he awoke, held tight within his mother's arms.

She was crying, rocking him against her chest like he was still a baby…why was she doing that? She never cried, she saw it as a sign of weakness for her people to see her so distraught, so she never cried. But she was crying now, and she didn't seem to care about the warriors of their tribe leaning over her shoulder and staring at Calgacus in wrapped awe.

One man with a long beard, and the markings of a Gull on his upper left bicep, looked right into Calgacus' face and spoke the words the boy hadn't known he'd been dreading, until he actually heard them.

'Where's Gallia?'

Gallia Tarbh's father was a strong man, yet when all Calgacus could do was shake his head in reply to the man's question; that great man, that mighty man, broke down. Falling to his knees and howling to the sky above.  
In the end the only part of the story that Calgacus could say for sure was true, was that at the end of it, Gallia was dead and he was not.

**Author's note **

**Aon-adharcach - Unicorn**

**Tarbh - Bull**


	25. Chapter 25: The Grand Hobbit Migration

Middle-Earth, Drúadan Forrest: T.A. 2992

Marmadoc Goodchild had loved his cousin, more than any cousin really should as far as propriety went. But to his defence how could anyone not love Halfred Gamgee, how could anyone not hang on that hobbit's every word, how could anyone not follow that hobbit into oblivion? Many a young hobbit had done so, Blarney, many an older hobbit had done so, for who could just sit by and watch as Halfred Gamgee marched?

There would be no more streets to march down now, no more rallies, no more heroics to their names, for Halfred Gamgee was sure and truly dead. But Marmadoc wasn't, nor were the many hobbits who had followed him as he fled the Shire. He had fled because he would be killed if he stayed, and really what was there for him to risk that? Nothing now that Halfred was dead, he had nothing, but he was not ready to follow his love into death, not yet. Maybe it was cowardice that made him run that day, but he couldn't bring himself to care anymore.

Couldn't really bring himself to care about anything other than staying alive, anymore.

The hobbits that follow Marmadoc Goodchild do so now, not out of any misguided loyalty to a dead hobbit's memory, or even because they particularly trust the youth that led them over the Brandywine River, past Bree, Rivendell and down into the plains of Rohan. Many of them didn't follow him at all; some dropping out of his party at Bree, some wandering away to see the Elves, some finding their way to Lake-Town and Dale. No, the ones that stayed did so simply because they saw no other alternative; many of them had never left the Shire before, many of them had never seen a man before, let alone an elf. They were shy, and barely near petrified whenever one came near them. They couldn't bear to stay in a settlement full of the strange tall creatures.

As for Marmadoc he couldn't bear to stay in any place that seemed so peaceful or ordinary; it reminded him too much of the Shire, reminded him too much of the love that he had lost to the hangman's rope. He just wanted to forget, and if he was ever going to be able to do that than it would have to be in a place that was so bizarre, so odd, so the exact opposite of the Shire that there would be nothing that would remind him of Halfred. Nothing at all that would make his heart ache so, that would make it stall in his chest and shudder to a stop. With each new place they passed through Marmadoc had prayed they'd find it, but with each new place, Marmadoc was only reminded of Halfred more by the strangeness of the places.

Bree, Rivendell, Rohan, they were all too strange and yet too similar. He had begun to suspect that he would never find a place to call home, that he would be leading these cold and tired hobbits across all of middle earth till the day he keeled over and just stopped moving altogether.

And then they found the Forest.

Truth be told they had not meant to stop there at all. Marmadoc had heard many a fine tale of the splendour of Gondor from the old tales Halfred would read him when they were young. And while memories of his cousin would forever mar the splendour of the white city, he was becoming tired of his travels. Nearly tired enough to accept his fate to be forever reminded of his loss, for it seemed no place would free him from that memory. Thus, he had intended to lead the few hobbits that still followed him into Gondor, it was only the Forest that stood in their way now.

They called it the Forest for they did not know the name of it, many of them having been too tired or too afraid to ask the large people of the Rohan; and they did not mean to stay long enough to give it one themselves. They had not thought it worth their time, believing this forest would only be a minor hurdle on their road to a new home. It was somewhere around the second week of stumbling around in the near pitch blackness below the Forrest's treetops, that they began to seriously rethink this view.

Two hundred and fifty hobbits left the Shire in the wake of the Revolt of Hard-bottle, twenty-five followed Marmadoc Goodchild into the Forest of Drúadan, and absolutely none of them made it to Gondor.

***  
Three weeks later

The followers of Marmadoc Goodchild were many things: they were highborn; they were lowborn; they were Tooks; they were millers; they were shopkeepers and farmers; they were cold, they were wet because it had rained non-stop for nearly a week and oh yes, they were going hungry because some fool had forgotten to refurbish their provisions.

The Took had not been the only one of his family to take part in the riots against Proudfoot, but he had been the only one who had had to leave the Shire over them. At this point in history, the Took family were so vastly wealthy that they could do practically anything and get away with it. Valar, maybe if a Took had been the one who killed the lass in the Brandywine river, Proudfoot would have never come to power in the first place. So, it was no real surprise that when everything had quieted down, and the dust of the riots had settled, no one was calling for the heads of the Tooks who took part in the disaster. The young fools would be allowed to live out their days in comfort and splendour, unspoiled by the folly of youth. Maybe they would be encouraged to go on an adventure in a few years' time, but then what was that to a Took? Strange lot the Tooks, they all went on adventures some time in their lives, but they nearly always came back from them.

This Took would not be coming back from his adventure, for what fool of a Took would ever call this journey an adventure? Perhaps if he had not been so eager to prove his worth to his lower-class comrades maybe he would be back home, in his comfy bed. Maybe he should have just cut his losses and stayed with the elves. But he knew, deep down, that he couldn't do that… after all, he was the last of Halfred's inner circle besides Marmadoc and Will Whitfoot to have survived the hangman's noose.  
Back in the early days it was just talk and planning, but the Tooks had been right in the thick of it as usual. It was said that those with Fallowhide blood– which the Tooks had an abundance of thanks to many generations of arranged marriages to cousins - were natural leaders. This really was not the case these days, but most hobbits believed it to such an extent that they'd ignore the obvious flaws in their leader if he had the right Fallowhide spring in his step.

Secretly, the Took wandered if even the Fallowhides of yesteryear were so much to fuss about. After all a hobbit was a hobbit, and it wasn't like there were a great deal of differences between those of Fallowhide ancestry and those of Harfoot or Stoor. An opinion that Halfred Gamgee had shared, because while Tooks were allowed to take charge of leading hobbits in the everyday activities of organizing this coup, the big decisions were left to Halfred's inner circle. Which up until he'd joined had been entirely made up of the more rustic of hobbits. Who hadn't particularly approved that there had been a Took let into their ranks, but they wouldn't have said anything, because no one went against Halfred Gamgee.

He was still resented though. There seemed to be a theory going around that the only reason someone like a Took would join their cause, was because they thought it all some great big adventure. The Took would have said something in defence of his kin, who at the end of the day were putting themselves in as much danger with this venture as any upstart Gardener's son. Yet he couldn't really deny what was arguably the complete and utter truth. Many of his cousins that had joined the rebellion, did consider it all some great big adventure; he might have excused it all as the stupidity of youth, yet it was hard to say such a thing to Halfred Gamgee, a boy of little more than twenty who already had the hard, care-worn face of a general, and the bright shimmering light in his eyes of a visionary.

To this day, the Took didn't know what had motivated Halfred Gamgee to trust him so, yet the point remained that he had, and it was for that reason The Took had led his battalion on the Lord Mayor's office itself. Fat lot of good it had done though, just got them all killed didn't it?

Perhaps he could have stayed, even though he had just turned thirty three and was considered fully an adult by the Shire's laws. Perhaps he could have used his family name, the only name he carried in these wild lands, to escape punishment like his cousins or Will Whitfoot had. But no, he couldn't do that, he didn't deserve to do that, none of them did. Why should the Tooks get to live their lives as if they had done nothing wrong, when they had led so many to their deaths. An entire generation of hobbits thinned till only the cowards stood.

Perhaps that was unfair, many of the hobbits he travelled with now were not cowards, despite their skittishness around the big folk, but he was. He was a coward, maybe if he wasn't then he would have stayed and let Proudfoot's men catch him. Maybe he would have stayed and followed his leader to the hangman's noose. But he hadn't, and now he had to live with himself. The small acorn bouncing around the hollow of his throat an ever-present reminder of what he had lost on that bright Sunny Morning in

Hard-Bottle.

He should have been looking where he was going, maybe then he would have seen the trap. Maybe he wouldn't have fallen into that hole, maybe he wouldn't have been knocked unconscious.

***  
The first thing the two hobbits noticed when they woke again, was not their surroundings, or the lack of the hobbits that had travelled with them, no, what Marmadoc Gamgee and the Took noticed first was their bare necks. The acorns they carried with them always, the symbol of their rebellion, had vanished.

This more than anything his captors could have done to him, terrified the Took. He began scrabbling around in the dirt at their feet, desperately hoping that it had somehow just slipped off accidently. Yet as time ticked on and the only fruit Goodchild's search produced was his own dirty fingernails, he had to admit that they properly had been taken by whoever held them here. Though for what purpose he could not begin to fathom, for surely, they would be worthless keepsakes to anyone who wasn't a hobbit.

The tent they had lain in while they recovered was red, but with the sun shining through the thin material just so, the whole thing turned a sunset pink. He didn't know why but somehow that colour made him feel so very drowsy, and perhaps he would have just nodded off right there and then, if the tent flap hadn't been pushed aside by…by her.

The Took was one of the few who had known of the love between Marmadoc and Halfred; though he had never understood it. Not because they were both male, or even because they were first cousins, but because, The Took had never experienced anything of that magnitude in his life. Never had that shock that told him this person, or persons - the Shire had always been rather lax in that regard - was the one for him. Yet he felt such a feeling now, as his eyes met those of the lass who had stepped through the tent's door.

He called her a lass, yet truthfully, he found it hard to tell what age she really was. Her features were so strange and alien in their beauty, that he could scarcely tell whether she was a maid of thirty or an old matron of eighty-two. She was not a hobbit, of that her small feet and nicely rounded ears made quite clear. Yet she seemed much too small to be of the race of man – or at least compared to the men he had seen on his travels. Her forehead sloped back, and her brows were thicker and more refined than that of a hobbit. Her head bore a more elongated shape than he was used to seeing, and her skin was the most beautiful shade of olive he had ever beheld.  
Falling to his knees, he proclaimed in a voice as loud as he could muster.

'Lady of this most wondrous Forest, I am at your service no matter what you may ask of me.'

For a second, she just stared at him, and then, in a voice more enchanting to his ear than the song of a nightingale, she said.

'My Father calls you both to meet him in the Chieftain's Chamber, I am to take you there. Come, quickly, he is not a patient man.'

These were a strange people, Marmadoc concluded; stranger than men or elves combined and considering, well...men and elves…that was really saying something. It wasn't how they looked, although their flat foreheads and their strange glowing eyes, were quite disconcerting in the middle of that strange forest. Nor was it that the Took seemed to be following their guide like a love sick youth; it was a bizarre sight, but then again not what made these people so strange.

No, these people were strange… truly odd, because they did not seem to find the hobbits themselves odd. Everywhere else they'd travelled; the hobbits had always received strange looks or outright stares and complete confusion from the truly rude. Yet these people did no such thing, as Marmadoc and his bewitched companion moved through the camp he spotted hobbits from their own party milling about as if nothing untoward had happened to them at all. They were talking, they were bent over cooking pots, they were washing clothes and doing all the things one might expect a hobbit to do. Yet they did all these things with the strange folks that had found them standing not but a hair's reach away, it was as if they were not among strangers at all, as if… as if they had finally reached home.

And perhaps…perhaps they had.

***  
One Year Later

It did not surprise the Chief of the Wild Men of Drúadan in the least that the creatures known to them as Hobbits asked to stay. Perhaps it would have before he'd met them, before he'd seen them, but it did not now. Marmadoc's people were welcomed whole-heartedly into the community and before long it was like they had always been there. And for a while things remained little changed for the people of the Large Wood, even despite their new friends, new comrades and lovers. That was until the day the first child of a hobbit and Wild Man was born.

In truth the Chief had not thought about what would happen should these strange folks from the kindly west marry with his people. The child, the eldest of his own daughter and the strange hobbit who called himself Took, was such a mixture of her parents features and statures that she seemed to be a completely different species altogether. Perhaps not so much that you would notice if you had not been looking as he had, perhaps she was just a hobbit with strange eyes and a slightly sloping forehead, or a wild man with large feet and slightly pointed ears. But he knew that she was something else, he knew it the moment he held her, and her neck almost snapped back when he didn't hold her head properly.

Her neck was not strong enough to support her head, that discovery had almost been worth the lecture he'd received from his irate daughter as she snatched away her screaming child. His Granddaughter was the first of these strange new children, but she was not the last. This was the future; this was how they would continue. It had come to him years ago that they were a people in decline – they'd never been a people that reproduced with great abundance, not like other Men, and with their taller cousins' habit of hunting them for sport, the Woses were not a race that would last long after the dominion of men took hold.

Yet this, this was a hope that maybe their people would live on, through these children. Maybe they wouldn't fade as had been often thought, maybe, just maybe they would change. Yes, that would be good, he could live with that.

Change is in the very nature of hobbits, to be near one is to know change at a fundamental level; of course, no one told the hobbits this. They considered themselves slow to change safely tucked away in their different corners of the world yet compared with the other races of Middle-Earth, they moved at the speed of lightning. After all no matter how, content they might grow as a species, they could not change the very nature of their being, their entire species had come about because of change, thus they could not but help to inspire it in others.

The change that came from what was later to be called The Great Hobbit Migration was perhaps slightly different in nature to the change that they usually provoked. For one thing it was of a far more obvious nature, and another of a far more carnal. For the one thing you must understand about hobbits, other than their incredible capacity for change and their love of food, was their attitude to coupling. They lacked the shame Men seemed to have developed over the years. While it was considered good manners when a couple married that they no longer seek partners of the opposite gender – note the same gender was considered quite alright so long as it didn't bother your spouse, since it was unlikely a child would be produced –those rules were not always adhered to.

And whatever rules there had been, had been thrown out the window as soon as they'd left the Shire. It wasn't so scandalous, after all many of the rules of marriage wouldn't have applied anyway. Since many of those that had fled the Shire after the riots were unmarried youths and lasses. Many of them only just reached their thirty-third birthday, there was the odd couple who had said their vows the night before they left, or a mature one who had chosen to leave with their exiled child or children. But for the most part the hobbits that travelled through the other lands of Middle-Earth were completely single.

Which was why it was a surprise to no one, well no hobbit anyway, when the next generation of the men of Dale, or Lake-Town, or even to a much lesser extent Rohan were born with very blatant leaf shaped ears, larger than normal feet and gargantuan appetites. Perhaps it would have been noticeable in Bree as well, if hobbits hadn't been living with them for generations, so no one really saw the difference in this generation compared to the last ones they had.


	26. Chapter 26: The Ambarussa

Arda, Deep in the North of Dunland; T.A. 3016

Their host is short this time, not as short as the last one, but shorter than the bodies they'd had in their old life. They had been through several in the past few years, it was sad to say neither son of Fëanor was very good at not getting burned alive. Oh, how their brothers would laugh at them for being so careless, but still, it was worth it now that they'd found this one. No, now that they shared this one, for the fate their mother had foreseen when she named them both Ambarussa had come to pass at last. Their fëa, who had always been so alike as to be the same fëa split in twain, now were contained within the same vessel. That it wasn't an elvish vessel, nor even a male one, mattered little to them.

Still despite this, their life was not without hardships, their host was part of a clan of men. Strange men, who wielded strange weapons and painted their faces all green and gold. The Ambarussa were the daughter of the chief and since the second plague had hit, they were also the youngest in the clan – only seventeen years of age. Well, until that woman Alga's new bairn arrived next spring, and they were growing tired of the ever-watchful eyes of their elders. Elders, as if the Ambarussa truly had elders anymore, they were older than even the Elders' farthest grandfathers and it was becoming a strain to heed the commands of those who were so much younger than them.

'Aine! '

The girl froze over the pile of their father's best made spears, well their father in this life.

'Step away from the spears less you know what's good for you, brat.' The Ambarussa growled but let their father's apprentice haul them away from the weapons.

'What were you thinking, do you wish to be impaled? Because I can tell you that is the only outcome you would get after lifting those logs above ye daft heed.' The youth grabbed the Ambarussa by their hair and hauled them out of the lean-to.

Others in the camp had stopped their work and turned to look as the Ambarussa were dropped unceremoniously onto the dusty ground. Which they did not bother to pick themselves up from, till the apprentice had stormed away in a huff. Grumbling over his shoulder that 'this was enough' and that 'he was going to tell her father of her crime'; the two souls tried not to laugh, they really did, but for all their restraint they were only now a child of seventeen, thus it was to the sound of their fitful giggling that their father returned.

'Oh, high foul, oh mercy, Baca what fool's errand have you brought me on now. You seek for me to punish my bairn for the crime of laughter? Perhaps I should punish ye for the crime of breathing?'

Baca had gone red, whether out of fury or just plain embarrassment the Ambarussa were not sure, but they hardly cared, as the irate apprentice was scolded and banished by his master.

By this time the two had settled their spirits and now stood upright when their father turned to face them.

'Merriment from the humiliation of others, hmm? I hang my head in shame, Quine, go bend your neck to the ancestors and pray they're in a far more forgiving mood than I today.'

What a life, as if the spirits of men long past could have any say over fëa such as they. Still, if it kept him content then the Ambarussa would do as their new Arda bid, after all, it was hardly the most humiliating punishment they'd ever had forced upon them.

That, they were certain, was yet to come.

***  
One Year Later

It was fated, they were to be married, not to each other – though they lived a far stronger bond than that every day – but to a boy in another clan. His father had been a great man, or so said hers, and their union would unite the clans of the North and West as only the Leomhann could have done before.

They think about saying no, they think about just getting up and leaving every night, but they don't. They dream of their brothers, and their father and their mission whenever they close their eyes. But they still don't leave, and they can't explain why. They think about the sun, and how long it has been since they've seen it. Even when the clan is traveling over the craggy, forested hills that lead to their new bride-groom's home, they don't take the opportunity to melt into the forest around them. They don't know why, but it's too late now, they're at the camp, the Camp of the Crystal Caves, the Camp of the Mountain-Lion Clan, the Camp of Calgacus.

Calgacus, a strange name even by the standards of Men, but it is the name of he who they shall wed. It is the name of the boy, the man who is standing at the top ridge of the path, leaning down to look at them as they ride past. His face is not green and gold like the faces of the men of their own clan, no it's blue, blue like the sky, blue like their mother's eyes. Not this body's mother – she was long dead when they stole it – but their real mother. The mother they left behind, the mother who had refused to follow their father into folly, the mother who'd been far wiser than either of them.

They decided they rather liked Calgacus' face, or at least the tattoos that graced it.

They bowed when they came face to face, both Calgacus and the Ambarussa, and they smiled at each other.

'Gooday Aine of Clan Mer,' the sky-faced boy said in his West Edge accent.  
The Ambarussa smiled gracefully, they let that slip pass, after all as far as Calgacus of the Crystal Caves knew they are Aine of the Mer Clan. Perhaps after they are married, they will tell him the truth, or perhaps not. For he is smiling at them now, his eyes are a dark grey that seems so…so familiar that they feel themselves caught in their beautiful black depths. They've seen these eyes before, even the dip of the eye lids which give Calgacus a sorrowful look even when he is smiling, seem familiar. They've seen these eyes before, many times before in fact, but in a very different face. In an older face, in a colder face, in a far angrier face. They are not the eyes a Man should have at all; they are the eyes of a Valar.

They don't scream, they do not want to scream, for they know without asking, without looking to his witch of a mother, that Calgacus doesn't know whose eyes he has. And they shall not ruin this day by pointing it out, besides, it's not as if they don't have more than enough to hide themselves.

T.A. 3018 

One year they had been wed to Calgacus when everything began to unravel. Up till that point it had been a good marriage, Calgacus was a kind and gentle husband, and the Ambarussa even entertained the notion that their father – the true one, the one they had been sent to find– might even have approved of their new spouse. They had never married before, in their old lives, and they had never wanted to – their people would never have condoned a shared spouse and to have separate ones, well, that would just be too painful for the Ambarussa. So Fëanor had never had the opportunity to approve of their choice before. He still didn't, and maybe he never would for Calgacus was mortal and mortal in a land where thirty was considered old, he would never live long enough to meet Fëanor, he would never live long to do anything. Yet all that sadness, all that misery in the back of their minds, well they were able to put that aside, for a time at least. For a year, life was very nearly perfect, and then the wizard had come.  
How no one knew, after all there was a reason the tribes had had to begin intermarrying between one another…no one could exactly get past the wooden cage the Lady Mab had thrust them all into. The Ambarussa as spirits had expected never to see the sun again, but it seemed cruel to thrust it upon a mortal, but then that was Mab all over, wasn't it?

A hatred that had begun as simply a petty jealousy of an older woman to a younger, had bloomed between the Ambarussa and their mother in law, until it was so strong that if Ambarussa caught her at the wrong moment they were more likely to get their face burned off, than a screaming match.

In fact, the only thing that the two women could ever agree on, other than their love for the Ambrussa's husband, was that they both hated the wizard. Well, maybe not hated on Mab's part, but the only other person the Ambarussa had ever seen the old crone direct such a withering look to had been…well…them.

Yet the wizard, didn't even seem to notice.

He was old, older even than them, and he was wizened and decrepit, and he hobbled about with his staff as if he needed it as a walking stick. He was welcomed by the Clan, who had never seen a creature like him – they'd seen magic of course, but the Magic of the wild men of Dunland, particularly Mab's was quiet and subtle. Unless of course it was setting you on fire or caging you and your unborn progeny up in the same decrepit land for generations to come. The bright light, and twisting sparkles of a wizard's magic was something they'd never seen. Was it any wonder how he captivated them …how he captivated Calgacus?

The Wizard's strange tales of the East had enchanted their husband, so much so that it brought down to earth just how young their spouse really was, only eighteen, a year younger than this body should have been by now.

The Wizard seemed acutely aware of their husband's entrancement with his tales, for he seemed to embellish them whenever Calgacus was in earshot, but the Ambarussa could not figure out why. Surely, he did not need his ego stroking, he was a wizard after all, he probably got enough of that just strolling through the villages of lesser men. So, consumed where they by this mystery that they didn't noticed the true threat to their marriage until it was much too late to stop it.

They were pregnant.

He was so happy when they told him, he wanted their baby…their baby, more than the Ambarussa had thought any mortal could want anything.

It was wrong.

The child would be wrong, at best it would come out dead…at worst, well, what was half Dead and Half alive could never truly walk in either world.  
It shouldn't have been possible, this body was barely alive, if it hadn't been for the force of the Ambarussa's spirits, it would have crumbled years ago. Yet the life-force, the new life-force that was wriggling around this body could not be ignored. At least not by them, and not by Calgacus.

He wanted them to be a family…he wanted the child to have everything their parents never did growing up…both parents alive and loving them. A blue sky up above, and the sun…the sun shining down as they played. Imagine that, Calgacus said his eyes a flame with the fantasy. A childhood free of the ever-looming presence of the dead, a childhood worth living.

And it could happen too, the blue wizard talked, oh how he talked…about the dead, about the cage, but more importantly about the world beyond. Men, Dwarves, lands of the East, and the Elves. Don't you know about the Elves, Aine, they've got magic like Mither but different. If we can…if we can just get out and find them, they can help. They'll make the dead leave, burn down the wooded walls, and we'll be free. Not just our family, but our people, everyone…isn't it wonderful Aine…isn't it everything we've ever wanted?

They wanted to make it true for him, to let him think that all he had to do was find an opening in his mother's wooden cage and he could fix things. But it just wasn't true, nothing good would come under the rays of the sun…not even just for their little family.

For the child inside of them should never have been, and they could not predict what kind of monster would come from it – if they were braver, if they were…less…less of a coward they would find some way to be rid of it. Lots of women did it – most of the time having a baby just wasn't worth the pain, not in a land like this one.

Maybe…maybe they would have…if his eyes hadn't shone so bright when he told them of his plan.


	27. Chapter 27: The Wooden Cage

Dunland: T.A. 3018

Aye, tis a gift.

That's what the old wifies would say, huddled round the fire pit, telling stories of before. Before the sky went dark, before Mither set the gem in place, back when the sun came out and the dead stayed in the ground.

Aye, they'd know right enough that what Aine just told me is a gift.

Something to be treasured and protected.

And yet I am afraid.

So afraid, that sometimes I wake up at night drenched in sweat – I canna even begin to fathom how the wife is coping so well. A bairn, a wee bairn, all our own…I don't think I've even seen one in the flesh before. Mithers always keep their babies huddled to their chest till they're old enough to run for themselves.

And there's going to be one growing inside of Aine, becoming a real person, that we can hold, and hug and show…well…that's the question isn't it. There's nay wonders in this land to show a bairn anymore, no sun in the sky, or rain on the ground. There's just the darkness. And the light of my Mither's stone high in the sky.

There's nary a life here, for anyone, let alone a child.

How long before the dead amass again, before they strike and even if we escape…what's after that? Hiding down beneath the surface of the earth with the Aon-adharcach? Fleeing to the edges of the land where jagged stone meets tangled wood?

I grew up without a father, without sun, or the sky, or the soft feel of the wind on my face. With a Mither that was so busy protecting me that sometimes she forgot to feed me.

My bairn is not going to grow up like that.

They're going to have a real childhood, with the Sky and the Sun, and the Dead long buried strapped in their graves.

I must find a way out.

The Wizard knew, but then he's a wizard and ye'd expect that kind of foresight from him.

I didn't tell him about the bairn, ye weren't supposed to talk about such things until…well, until the tiny thing came out. But wizards are wizards, and I think he already knew. That's why I asked him what I did.

'Get out? You want me to tell you how to get out of here?'

'Aye, I figured ye would know well enough – ye got in somehow.'

'Indeed, I did.' Laughed the old wizard, his giggles more of a hacking cough. He was a small wee thing of a man, all bent and crooked and as blind as a dead rat. How such a man could have gotten past my Mither's charms I'll nay be certain for as long as I live. But then, he's a wizard and doing extraordinary things must be a fairly common occupation for them.

'Alright, I'll tell you…but tit for tat, I need something in return.'

'Fit?'

'Just something small…nothing that ye would miss.'

'That dinna sound comforting wizard, fit de ye want?'

'What I want is for you to tell me anything I ask.'

'And why would I dee that?'

'No promise, no way out.'

I looked down at the ground, for the first time since I'd met the old man, hatred for him welled up within my stomach. But what could I do, my bairn…my baby…they needed this.

'Alright, I promise to tell ye anything ye ask. Now how do I get out of here?'

'If I'm to risk the wrath of your Sorceress Mother, then I'd like to know why I'm doing it.'

I look down, the hard shell of the crackling log in the fire sparks a light that makes me squint. I shouldn't tell…she wouldn't want me to tell…but I canna get us free by myself.

'My Wife's Pregnant.'

The wizard sat back, a small smile on his haggard face.

'Well. Isn't that something…I will help you, but if you get caught my name must never be mentioned.'

'Fit why? My mother wid never throw an old man such as ye self to the dead.'

'Be ye so sure of her honour, she's the one that trapped you in here to begin with.'

'Trapped the dead ye mean.'

'Aye, them too. Well enough of that, I could tell you that it was a great spell that caught me in here, but it would be a lie…I haven't been able to use a spell of that magnitude since…well…since long before you were born.'

'Then how…'

'Your mother's magic is strongest on a place when she knows it well, find a place where she never walks, or runs or even thinks of. The Magic will be weaker there, and you and your wife should be able to slip out.'

I canna help it then, I almost wanna hug the man.

'But first things first, the payment.'

I sighed, well, all clear skies had to have a storm cloud hidden somewhere in them.

'Fine, fit ye want to know?'

***  
Dunland, Cage of the Wooded Hills, near the banks of the river of life: T.A. 3018

On a hill, at the farthest reaches of the land once known as Dunland, there lived a small village – well, perhaps it was not so much a village as it was a collection of small stone crofts that had since been abandoned by the sheep herders that had once tended them so diligently.

It was unclear what had driven these men of the herd so far from their homes – whether it was the ever-looming presence of the dead, or the fact that without the sun, sheep seemed to wither. Whatever the case it was empty when the man and his wife arrived at the Height of the midnight hour.

They were wrapped all in furs, till all but their eyes were hidden from view, and if you happened to be a casual observer you would not have seen the blue markings of the Leomhann across the boy's face, or the green and gold of the Mer Clan's across the girl's. All you would have seen was the vague outline of a fur wrapped couple, unable to move any longer.

'This canna be it, Calgacus. The Wizard must have been lying.'

Hissed the girl shape.

'Aye, it is…Mither never thinks about her old hut, she hated it here…dinna feart, she winna look for us out here. And the Wizard has no reason to lie to me, he's nay the nicest of fellows, but he winna double cross his own escape route, dinna feart, he'll be showing up on the other side for sure, he's much too afraid of Mither to stick around after he's shown her son the way out.'

'As well he should be, ye daft man, this'll be the first place she'd look for ye – the wizard will nay be coming over here, I can tell you that.'

The boy didn't reply to that, instead gripping the staff in his right hand he moved to the smallest of the old shacks. Tiny, and dilapidated it surrounded itself in an aura of cold, and the dead – but this only spurred the boy on.  
'We're nay gwaning inside that,' said the girl with the green face. 'I winna go in there even if I weren't caring yer bairn.'

The boy shoved the cracked, and rotten plank of wood that served as a hap-hazard door to the croft, aside as if it were made of wool. And having fallen to his hands and his knees, he started to crawl inside – the girl just stood there, her arms crossed over her stomach and scowled at her husband's retreating back.

'Calgacus, I dinna like this, come back now or I'm turning back and going hame without ye.'

From within the tiny croft, there was no reply.

'Calgacus, I'm nay joking here…this was a stupid idea, yer gonna get us both killed and then the bairn won't have any life at all.'

A rumble from inside the croft and the girl finally lost her patience with him.

'That's it, I'm gwain back home…feel free to get eaten all ye like Calgacus, but I'm nay staying to watch.'

Perhaps she would have even done it, in another life, another time – had the sky above their heads not suddenly exploded in a flash of lightening. That…that wasn't supposed to happen, they saw no rain, or clouds, or the sky above their heads in the land of Dunland. This was so beyond the bounds of possibility, that had Calgacus stood there instead of yon Aine he wouldn't have even recognise it at all.

'Calgacus! Calgacus! Calgacus!'

Inside the hut any noises outside were muffled and distorted to the boy's ears. He was sure, Aine had not followed him in, but then maybe that was better, if he were to die in here at least she and the bairn would live.  
A cold brush of the wind from outside, and he knew that dream was dead. He could feel her move up beside him, the small space of the cottage, crowding them close together.

'Fit changed yer mind?'

'Shut yer gob Aon-Adharcach and move along, yer crushing me with yer massive bulk.'

'Cheeky.'

The two began to giggle, and had the air not been so cold, or the cottage so small and stifling one might even be forgiven in thinking that the young couple were quite enjoying themselves in that small, dark, dank cave of a room.  
You would be wrong, but you could be forgiven…the noises they were making was certainly most joyful, until they weren't, until there weren't any noises at all, for there was no one there to make it anymore.


	28. Chapter 28: The Last Homely House

Middle-Earth, Rivendell: T.A. 3018, October 22nd 

It wasn't that the elves of Rivendell had never seen a man before, indeed men of the Rangers were forever in and out of the homely halls of Rivendell. Why, their lord's own foster-son was of the race of Man, so that wasn't why they stared at the three strangers. No, it was because they had never beheld men quite like these.

The oldest of the three had skin the colour of copper and was bent and blind, limping forward supported heavily by one of his companion's arms. He had power in him, even the weakest among them could sense that. So much in fact that surely this was no man at all… but a wizard. True, he was not any wizard the elves knew of, yet with that kind of power how could he be anything else? Yet as truly exciting as was the prospect of a new wizard here amongst them, it paled in comparison to the bafflement they felt on sight of the Wizard's companions.

They were younger, much younger, barely older than children really. The boy was closest to the wizard, so it was to him that most eyes drifted to. His body, trapped as it was under the arm of the old man, was stocky and rounded, and the eyes which gazed out at them, from under furrowed brows were the same dull grey of the sky above them. Yet it was neither his body nor his eyes that caused them to stare. The face that gazed around Rivendell like it had somehow leaped off the pages of a story book, was, for all intents and purposes… blue. His cheeks, his nose, and the hair on his head were all a deep shade of brilliant blue.

It was quite a sight, so one might be forgiven for overlooking the final person that walked through their gates, that cold October morning.

The Girl had long ringlets of red-matted hair, that half hid her face from view, but not enough so that the keen eyes of elves couldn't see the strange green and gold markings splattered across her pretty face. Her garments were plain, almost sack like in nature – as if they had specifically been chosen to hide the shape of her body, but even then the curve of her belly was so prominent that a half-blind dwarf could have spotted it.

***

Elrond was a healer first among all things. He could spot a soul that needed his help from miles away, farther with the old man, for he could barely walk through the gate. He should have been sat upon Glorfindel's horse, but where that beast had wandered off to nobody knew. The twice born elf and his steed had still not reconciled after the creature had kicked him off to go and look for the hobbits.

He'd barely had time to spare for his new visitors, the Ringbearer was still asleep and much work had to be done for the coming Council. But his feelings told him this was important; something was being set in motion, and he didn't need precognition to know that he wasn't going to enjoy it.

'So, you are the lord of this house then?' The old man croaked when Elrond met them at the bottom of the main staircase. Elrond replied in the affirmative and the old creature let out a great sigh, though whether from relief or exhaustion Elrond knew not.  
'Well that is fair news, for I have a wish to speak with a high-ranking Elf this day. Terribly things are happening in the world, and like always your people are at the root of them. So, you see we have…'cough'… much to speak of but first, you must bring me to Gandalf, yes Gandalf the Grey.'

Glorfindel and the blue faced child lowered the stranger to sit on the step beside the mighty Elf Lord. 'Tell me, for I think you might know, where is Gandalf the Grey? For I have much cause to speak with him, and it would sooth these withered old bones of mine to feel another of my kind near."

'Another of your kind?' Said Elrond, as he finally began to comprehend exactly who he was speaking to.

'Yes, another, for I, am the Wizard of blue known as Pallando. Now take me to Gandalf, for I do not believe I have much time left.'

***  
It had been such a wonderful thing at first, to be out, to be free of that cage…even Aine, though she had complained enough at the time, had laughed at the feeling of the wild wind ripping through her hair. But it hadn't lasted, nothing truly good ever really did.

Calgacus Aon-adharcach had felt eyes on him since the moment he had stepped through the gates of this strange place. It was not a particularly peculiar sensation these days, ever since they'd left their own land, people of all sorts were forever staring at them. Staring at him, at Aine, at the baby in her belly as if…as if they were a peculiar oddity in one of their road-side freak shows. The Wizard had waved it off as nothing, people were just startled at seeing a Dunlander out of Dunland. Calgacus, who didn't particularly care for that identification of his people or his homeland, had told the Wizard exactly where he could shove that sentiment. Then the old man had hit him, hit him good and hard round the back of his head with the butt of his Wizard's staff.

There'd been a lot of fights that ended like that on their journey, Calgacus was even beginning to suspect that he now boasted a permanent bump at the base of his skull.

The stranger, their guide had introduced as Elrond, whisked the old blither away as soon as the word "wizard" had left his mouth, and Glorfindel and the two Dunlanders were left alone. Elves had always been a mystery to the young man of the Leomhann Clan, they were as far off to him as the very stars themselves. A strange tall people with flawless faces, beautiful eyes and an all-knowing spirit. Perhaps in another life, a life where he was not the son of the Leomhann or born of Mab, a life where the dead had the decency to stay in their graves once they'd been buried, Calgacus might have grown to trust them, maybe even love them. But that was not this life, and Calgacus knew too much of the dirty little secrets these strange, beautiful creatures tried to hide from the rest of the world; knew too much of where their dead crawled from when they fled those beautiful bodies, to ever be comfortable in their presence. After all, they spoke their tongue.

He guessed his wife felt quite the same, for she would cling to his arm tightly whenever Glorfindel cared to walk too close.

The Elf seemed to sense this, yet whether it bothered him or not Calgacus found it very hard to care either way. Especially not when the elf gave that smug little bow, as if he were humouring Calgacus and Aine with the show of respect, as if…as if they were nothing more than up-start children in the presence of their physical and moral superiors. The boy knew that it was his own anger, and his own bitterness at the cruelty and faithfulness of the Gods that drove the elf to abandon them there, alone in that strange and beautiful place.

This was indeed a strange place, beautiful and calm, like the first frost on one of the deeper lakes back home. Back home...had his mother realised they'd gone yet, yes. Yes of course she had…he could feel her fury even from behind the walls of such beauty. But she had to understand, didn't she, had to understand that they didn't have a choice…they'd had to leave for the baby's sake. There was no other option for him, how could he let his child, a child beared by his wife, be born into such a land. Many said it was better to let it die in the womb, before it ever had to witness the raising of the dead. Such collective reasoning was why there'd been so few infants born to his people since the occasion of his own birth, better for the child in the long run.

They should have done the same, should never have been so cruel, so unconditionally selfish as to…as to inflict a land of the rotting, a land of the stinking flesh which rose from the grave if you were fool enough not to burn the body. Yet, he'd wanted, no they both had wanted that baby so badly. Wanted to meet that person that was part of the person they loved.

That was why he was here, that small person growing within his wife's stomach. That small person who yet knew nothing of the hardships, or the terrors of this world. Who yet had never seen the cruel light of the moon held back from them by his mother's magic, on the night that the dead walked in their hundreds across the breath of the land, all desperately wandering, searching for a leader? A leader who his own father had taken with him to the grave. A child who, if he was successful in his vow to it, would never have to see such sights at all.

The Elves had started the dead rising, or so his mother and elders said when the old wizard had begun to speak of them – but maybe that meant they could stop them.  
He needed to speak with the lord of this house and he needed to speak with him now.

Rivendell, Lord Elrond's Council Chamber

Gandalf had not seen Pallando in more than a century. It would be redundant to say his friend had changed a great deal in that time, because of course he had. But to be frank, the old Wizard hadn't thought he would change this much, and certainly not in this way of all things.

They had all taken the guises of old men when they had first set foot on this mortal soil of course, but there was something truly wizened about Pallando now; as if even his most inner core had been drained of life.

'Olorin? Is that you?' Pallando raised his shaking hand to Gandalf's face. 'My gods, you got so old.' Despite his shock, and not a small amount of horror at his old friend's appearance, Gandalf couldn't help but laugh.

'Time takes a toll on us all, even those who do not age as mortal men, my dear friend.'

Pallando squeezed Gandalf's hands. 'That it does, that it does, which is why I have come here now, why I have sought you out.' Said the old man before him, and his blind eyes stared into the distance with such intensity that even Gandalf felt quite shaken.  
'All these years on Middle-Earth soil Olorin, and you never wondered? Never even questioned why after all these thousands of years you and I have dwelt on these shores…nothing has changed?' Gandalf contorted his face and frowned at the blue wizard in utter confusion.

'Oh, I know that look in your eyes my friend, even if I can no longer see it for myself, you're thinking the hot sun of the East has finally leached into my brain and robbed me of my senses. Well maybe it has at that, but I can't put these thoughts aside just yet even if they are simply the product of madness.

'So, tell me, for you would know better than I, has there been any change of significance in the lands of the West and their cousins to the North? And take care when you answer, for I do not speak of change as a changing name on a throne. I instead speak of ideas that would-be alien to those in ages come before us. Is there any difference in the way Men, Elves or Dwarves fight, dress, eat, or think? Anything to suggest that the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth have not fallen into stagnation?'  
Gandalf said nothing, for he was beginning to suspect Pallando needed no answer.

'Aye it is as I thought, you have no answer. Peace has not inspired growth in them, war has not inspired growth in them… I'm afraid nothing short of the light of a Silmaril will inspire such change as is needed now. And those are rare on the ground these days, wouldn't you say?'

Gandalf said nothing, which was clearly not the response that Pallando had wanted.

Pallando trembled as Lord Elrond's healers eased him back onto the bed, his mouth twisted in a grotesque visage of rage. 'Mayhap it is not I but Gandalf who's succumbed under the weight of our task. Your love of this place and its people have blinded you to the realities of their situation. And when a blind man tells you that, you had better sit up and listen.

'Oh, you think I blame them for it, I don't. In all honesty it's not their fault they've failed as a culture to produce anything of value since the first age...it's ours. We were sent to lead them, to guide them, but what have we done instead? The head of our order locks himself away for years at a time, only coming out to tempt good people to do wicked things. Oh, aye I know of that too, I've been in many lands, not all of them in the east: where do you think my young blue faced companion came from? After everything that's happened in that land lately Saruman will have a task just getting into it, let alone turning its people to his wicked cause. Oh Gandalf, this did not shock me as I'm sure deep down it did not shock you, for Curffino was ever the wayward son of greater houses.

'Our brother Radagast plays with his birds and rabbits in the forest, Alatar is a monster and I am weak, we have failed. The people of the East deserved better than what we could do. You at least have tried your uttermost to help, but even you the mightiest of my kin did not see it as your duty to help these people grow. Help them make a world actually worth defending.'

For a second Pallando paused and swept his still shaking arm in front of him as if he were addressing the whole room – which constituted of the two apprentice healers Elrond had set to watch Pallando, while he himself was called away to more important matters.

'So, I hope all present are quite happy with the way your world runs and operates, because you're going to be living with it for a very long time.'

Gandalf sat back in his chair; his eyebrows lowered in a menacing manner. 'I do hope there was a point to that whole speech, nice as it was, because right now I'm failing to see it.'

Pallando snorted indignity as he let the young healers ply him with a sleeping draught.

'My point, if you would care to listen to it, is to tell you I have found an answer… that I've found a Silmaril.'

Gandalf choked back something that sounded vaguely like a laugh.

'And how did you do that? Reach into the sky and pluck it from Erendil's grasp? Dive into the deepest oceans of this earth? Or did you perhaps become fireproof at last and fish it out of the fires from whence it was dropped?'

'None of them, I suppose in all truthfulness it was not I but Alatar who fished it from the fires of this world. He never told me how he accomplished it, and I never asked but he did have it Gandalf, I saw it with my own two eyes. Such a brilliant light it was; till this day I can still feel the warmth on my face.'

Gandalf's brows furrowed until they practically hid his eyes from view entirely.

'If this is true my friend, and you sound so earnest I have trouble believing it is otherwise, then our worries have increased tenfold this day. A Silmaril on earth, this can only mean one thing for the world, war. This is hardly an ideal time for another war, we've barely started the first.'

Then he smiled, his eyes crinkling up at the corners, as the sleeping draught began to take full effect on Pallando's mind.

'Rest now though, we will talk of this deeper when we next see each other, now I have much to discuss with Lord Elrond and your young blue-faced companion. Sweet Dreams Pallando the Blue, we shall meet again, I swear on it.'

As Gandalf left the healing chamber, Pallando tried desperately to call out to him again, franticly fighting off sleep. But no matter how hard he tried to yell, it always came out as a whisper, barely audible to his own ears.

'Gandalf, Gandalf, please don't leave. There's more…Alatar mad…couldn't…couldn't leave it in his…in his hands. Had to hide it, …so I…s…sent it to you. Keep it safe, don't let him find it, or we're all…we're all finished.'

And Pallando the blue closed his eyes for the very last time.

Gandalf had been in this world, in this Middle-Earth, for longer than most men could count; and in all that time, in all those many, many years within this land, he'd encountered many kinds of men. Many cultures, many races, and yet this one that sat in one of Elrond's most uncomfortable chairs, truly puzzled him.

He was young, far younger than his eyes or his bearing told the wizard he ought to be. Gandalf had seen many such young men, hardened and aged too quickly by the brutality of war, or indeed just daily life.

Elrond and the child – for the young man was a child far more than he was ever a man – looked up from their discussion when the grey wizard, in all his cloaked glory, swept in to the small parlour where Elrond had stuffed the boy while he saw to more important visitors.. The elf-lord in question scowled at Gandalf as if he were nothing more than a nuisance. Well, that he may well be, but he was nuisance who needed the information that this strange blue-faced child, seemed to possess.

'Boy, I have need to speak with you at once.'

'Gandalf, this is quite…'

'Not now Peredel! Tell me boy, is it true, has Pallando found a Silmaril?'

The boy blinked up at him, suddenly seeming every inch of his painfully young self.

'I wouldna ken sir, having nae clue what it is ye even speak of.'

'A Silmaril boy, a Silmaril.'

'It doesn't matter how often ye say it, it willna make a difference to me, I still nay ken fit yer going on aboot.'

'Yes indeed. Gandalf if you are to stay please sit down and be as silent as it as possible for you to be. Master Calgacus and I were deep in the middle of a conversation when you…'

'When I what?'

'Interrupted us.'

'A discussion about what exactly?'

'The troubles o ma homeland, Master Wizard, it s wye ah cam here in the first placie.'

'I thought your purpose for coming here was to escort Pallando the blue?'

'Nae, we met him on the road an we jis sae happened tae be gyan the same way.'

'So Pallando has never been to Dunland.'

'Nae to my knowledge.'

Gandalf's brows furrowed – the way he had spoken…it was as if…as if he had known that strange place, that caged place well.

'Bit ah hiv met Alatar the blae in ma homeland, if aat's of ony consequence tae ye?'

Dunland

In a cold little hole, deep within the cracks of this once beloved land – there sits a gem. You've seen this gem before, many times in fact, for it was once a great gem – the masterpiece of its maker.

Not so anymore, no one has even clapped eyes on it in too many mortal years for the gem to count. Now all it does is sit here, in the cold water of the sea-pool, and wait, though wait for what even the gem cannot say for sure.

All the gem knew was that so long as it sat here, in this cold place, floating in the water, it would be found again. Whether this took a year, or three hundred mattered not at all to the jewel, for jewels are eternal and hence feel not the passage of time as we do.

All it knew was that a shadow would pass over the thin light of the moon up above, and a man – or something in the shape of a man would take hold of it and bring it up to the light at last. Now whether that was happening one thousand years in the past, or right now hardly bothered the gem. It knew it would happen eventually. And so, when a hand bent to grasp it, the jewel did not care at all that it smoked from the contact – because it was proven right, and that was almost worth it.

'Hello, my beautiful creation.'

Said the son of Finwë as he held the jewel of his hand, up to the thin sliver of moonlight that leaked through from the world beyond.

'It's so good to see you again.'


	29. Chapter 29: Peculiarity of the Young

Elrond listened to the tale of the blue-faced child with growing bile in his throat. He had lived longer on these shores of Middle-Earth than even the great Gandalf; this shouldn't have shocked him as it did. This shouldn't have, have made the insides of his stomach, that which could hold its own against even the most gruesome of sights on the battlefield or – far more impressively – even the most experimental of his daughter's concoctions, twist and turn as if it itself was suffering the violence the boy described.

Battles were no new thing, and though it alarmed both him and the Wizard that a battle of such magnitude and scope could have gone unnoticed to the world outside Dunland, it certainly wouldn't have been enough to scare them, certainly in no manner that the full tale did.

No, what truly caught the Elf and the Wizard off guard was the descriptions of the dead, the dead that in the land of the Dunlander rose from their graves and stalked the living, like so much spectres at the King's feast. Maybe it was the drawn-out descriptions of their rotting flesh, or how even when the bones in their legs grew too brittle to walk, they would crawl on the ground till they reached their quarry. Or maybe it was the tales of their screams, loud and so life like as to almost fool a mother to snatch her son's body from the pile of burning corpses.

Perhaps it was none of that, perhaps it was simply the tales of the disease, the pain and the despair that came from the child's mouth. These people had never been well liked among their fellow men, their choices of allies during war time too poor, their dislike of the Dunedin too great, and their culture too bizarre to the other men. The men of Rohan, the men of Gondor, even to the far-off men of Harad and Rhûn, these strange men of Gods that were not the Valar, not even the Wicked one, stood apart. The only culture of men – or at least the only one Elrond had heard any reports of – that retained no Numenorean influence. Not in their clothes, or their speech, or their writing – though it was highly doubtful they had any form of written word at all.

This boy was of a strange and alien people to the elves, and yet as Elrond sat there and looked into the serious grey eyes before him, his mind was pulled back to before, to before the ranger, to when the King of the Dunedin had just been Estel. Had sat before him in this room, his posture almost as bent and submissive as Calgacus Aon-adharcach's. Elrond could no longer remember why the boy had been dragged before him, most likely something to do with the twins, they were generally at the heart of all the young Dunedin's misdemeanours.

He was there now, back again, a boy with striking grey eyes looking to him, begging him to please help, please don't be mad, please make it better and what could Elrond do but say yes to eyes like those.  
Reaching out he grabbed the blue hands of the boy.

'If there is any way I can help you or your people in this matter, it would be my honour Calgacus son of Leomhann.'

The boy smiled then, such a smile as had only a child of his own had ever bestowed upon him before now. Estel, Arwen, Elladan, Elrohir…Erestor. The warmth of that gratitude, that smile was almost enough, almost worth the dark scowl of reproach from the wizard.

Middle-Earth, Rivendell, Lord Elrond's Council Chambers: T.A. 3018

'I know what you would say to me Gandalf, and I shall not hear it, perhaps my heart did soften slightly for the Dunlanders, but only for the plight they suffer, not the messenger they sent.'  
Gandalf tried not to smile, he really didn't care how nostalgic the elf lord was for his children's childhood, where life was viewed through the rose-tinted spy-glass of time. Yet perhaps he should have, if that misplaced nostalgia was going to affect his judgement.

'For Manwe's sake Gandalf you sat there, as unwanted as you were, you sat there beside me and heard the same tale. Do you believe the child was making it up? You, yourself have witnessed the strange forest that has grown up around that land, unhindered by the mortal passage of time. That is fact for certain, do you think the rest of the tale is nothing but lies? That all those…all those descriptions of the dead walking the earth, of plague and pestilence striking down those men who were brave enough to stand against such fiends, to be nothing more than the by-product of a twisted mind? Come now Gandalf, I thought you wiser than that?'

'Did I say I believed he lied?'

The elf stopped pacing and turned to glare at the wizard.

'Then what do you say Gandalf, that we should ignore such a plight simply because it is inconvenient?'

'I am saying to look at the bigger picture here, Master Elrond, not just your feeling of connection with the child who brought you the news.'

'And what exactly is the bigger picture here, Gandalf? Hmm? These people, this cursed land's borders are close to Rohan's.'

'An Enemy of Rohan.'

Elrond paused then, his brows furrowed, and Gandalf pressed the inevitable conclusion to the seed he had already planted within the mighty lord's mind.

'Rohan is an alley we need in this war, Dunland is not, I'm sure their plight is quite real this time, but Rohan shall not thank you for aiding a people who have caused them so much grief in the past.'  
Elrond grimaced.

'No, perhaps not, but you cannot tell me your heart is as stone as the walls of my home. And say we do leave them to their fate, that we do turn our backs on the cries of these children of a strange and distant land, what then? If they cannot seek help from us, from amongst the free people of Middle-Earth, then perhaps they shall turn to our enemy.'

Gandalf sighed.

'That is a point I have feared since first I laid eyes on the lad, there is great hate and resentment toward the horse lords festered in that land and now, now there is desperation. You are right, what would such a people do when turned away from the light but to turn back to the darkness. Send a small group of soldiers if you truly feel that you must, but nothing that will attract the notice of the riders of Rohan.'

'I will speak to my sons, now I think onto a matter of other business for us. The Wizard the children arrived with, a comrade of yours from the east I believe.'

Gandalf nodded slowly as if preparing himself mentally for what was bound to come next.

'What news did he bring you that was so urgent, it would warrant such a dangerous journey?'

And so, Gandalf told him.

'A Silmaril, Gandalf?' It was hard to judge Elrond's moods on the best of days, now though the elf was completely unreadable. It was as if he had just shut down the moment Gandalf had said the word Silmaril.

'And what does your Pallando expect us to do with this information?' As he spoke Elrond rose from his elegant council chair, he had collapsed into, and strolled to the balcony. 'We have no Silmaril in front of us to use against our enemy, does he expect us to drop everything and kill ourselves searching for this gem, as too many have done before us?'

Gandalf scowled, not enjoying the tone he was being addressed in.

'I suspect Pallando does not expect us to do anything with this information, in the time I knew him he was never one for schemes and gentle manoeuvring. If he had wanted us to do something with this knowledge, he would have said it, now please do sit down again, you are giving me a headache.'

Elrond stalked back to his chair with as little grace as any elf could manage, and Gandalf continued to work through his own thought process.

'In all honesty there is nothing we can do right now, you are right in part, the ring's destruction is too important to set aside for the brief possibility of a Silmaril. Yet I do worry, the thought of one of those gems out in the world and unprotected by the earth's core; anything could happen to it.'

For a fraction of a second an awkward silence hung between the two mighty beings, and then Elrond coughed.

'Well if we're quite done with that, shall we get back down to the immediate danger. The ring must be destroyed that is apparent. Now we just have to decide who will do it before the Ringbearer wakes.'

'Yes' Gandalf sighed. 'I suppose we must.'

The twins hadn't exactly reacted favourably to being told that they were being sent to this strange, foreign land – to aid a very strange and often untrustworthy people. They wanted to stay here, in their father's house and protect the borders from the scourge of the orcs. It's what they'd done ever since their mother…since their mother had had to leave. To move on to the Grey Havens to heal from…from what the Orcs had done to her. But so enthusiastic had been his sons pursuit of the creatures, that they barely had an orc problem near the borders anymore. They avoided it like…well…like a land with a great sickness hung upon it. He'd even said as much to his two sulking boys, but they hadn't been particularly convinced.

Still he wasn't just their father, he was their lord and they knew their duty to him. They had left the following morning with a small band of maybe twenty, or twenty-five of Elrond's best warriors. He would have liked to send more, but it wasn't entirely true that the Orc problem had vanished. Plus, there was the Ring and the Ringbearer to concern themselves with – they needed the protection of his guards and his people, he was risking much just sending his boys away. Though privately he was grateful for the excuse, Gandalf had liked too much the idea of one of the twins going on the quest. Now neither of them would ever have the chance to volunteer, for they would not be in attendance.

'My lord, are you alright?'

Elrond stiffened and straightened, turning to face the councillor who had so taken him by surprise. Erestor, it was always Erestor. He moved so silently, almost as silent as a hobbit sneaking in to steal something from the kitchen. It wasn't meant to be an unflattering comparison; Elrond had been impressed by how quickly the young Took had moved when he thought he'd been caught in the act of stealing one of the pastries for the feast. Still he would never say it to Erestor's face, the young councillor was already too ready to hear criticism of himself in his lord's words, even if there was none there. It was left over from his childhood, Elrond was certain – moving silently, a fear of being reprimanded even if he tried to hide it now, in the service of Elrond Peredhel. Those of the Eldar race didn't exactly deal kindly with children born outside the marriage bed.

Elrond had not known Erestor in his early childhood, by the time the Half-Elven had returned to Gil-galad's court from one of his many journeys to try and locate his foster fathers, the young Erestor had been in his mid-fifties. Certainly not an adult of any kind, but nor was he a toddler anymore – he was a young elf, with thoughts and mind of his own. Fully aware of the nasty things that must have been said about him, and his mother all around the court of that mighty Elf King.

Elrond did not often let himself think of Erestor's mother – not because her absence pained him so terribly, as his own wife's had. They had never really loved each other – she was kind, and intelligent, and saw things more clearly than even Elrond with all his many gifts could have ever done. He'd fancied for a time that he must be in love with her, because elves weren't supposed to lay with someone who they did not love – but Hecile, who was almost a hundred years Elrond's senior, had known better than that. He did not really love her, and anyway the differences in their station – he the last Eldar son of the line of Beren and Lúthien, those noble heroes of legend, and she just a common kitchen maid. Maybe one day, if she worked hard enough, she'd even be a cook but she'd never be a lady, fair and beautiful and worthy in the eyes of the court, to marry an elf like Elrond.

She'd said as much to Elrond himself, when he'd tried to propose the day after they'd lain together. She'd laughed at him, high and almost cruel. He'd gotten angry then, demanded to know why it was such a ridiculous notion for two Noldor Elves of different stations to marry – when tales such as Beren and Lúthien's were still sung in every banquet hall yet standing. It was not the same, Hecile had explained, all the grief they had had to go through was worth it for Beren and Lúthien, because they had truly loved each other. Hecile and Elrond did not, not really – they might have liked each other, maybe even respected, but they did not love one another not as a husband and wife in the Eldar tradition should.

He'd been angry and hurt and…well, maybe that was why he had left that same day, and stayed away for so many years. Stayed away long enough to see the truth in Hecile's words, he did not love her– it was just a young elf's folly. And she was right, their marriage would have brought more heartache to them both than it would love. No, Elrond did not avoid thinking of Hecile because he so desperately missed her, but because her memory reminded him too much of the damage his absence had done for her son.

'My Lord? My Lord?'

The was the sound of clicking close to Elrond's nose, and the mighty elf lord snapped back to reality once again. And he turned to behold the oldest of the sons of Elrond, the one it would be too complicated to ever really claim, looking at him with narrowed expectant eyes. He really…he really did look so very much like Elros.

'It was nothing Erestor, nothing at all…I just worry for my sons. To face the walking dead is no danger small and frail.'

And Erestor smiled at that, a quick turning of the lips – so similar to Elros that it made Elrond want to laugh and weep, but he held himself back, for Erestor's dignity if nothing else.

'I it is, my lord. But be not afraid, Elladan and Elrohir are mighty swordsmen and besides it's only Dunland that the Dead have set their sights on. Terrible for the people who live there, but a small land not overly involved – at least anymore – in the doings of this great war we must fight against the enemy. It could always be worse, Lord Elrond, at least it isn't Rohan.'

Yes…yes, as usual Erestor was right; at least it wasn't Rohan.

***  
Middle-Earth, Rohan, Edoras: T.A. 3018, February 8th

Théodred had never thought about what his death would be like before, well not in any detail. He'd had a vague notion of dying at 102 in his bed surrounded by 10 children and 20 grandchildren, or barring that falling in battle, defending his king and country. But whatever he may or may not have imagined his death to be like, it would never have been this.

He was a prince of Rohan for gods' sake, one of the last in a long line of great kings that had come before him. If he had to die young at least it should have been in a battle, even just a small one at the start of a great war would have been better than this. Oh, how they would crow at him in the history books, the mighty Théodred son of Théoden undone by a crusty piece of bread.

As his vision began to fade and the sound of his panicked father and cousins began to grow fainter and fainter, Théodred could have sworn he heard a new voice whispering in his ear. An old voice, a cold voice…or maybe that was just him, he was so very cold now.

_Maedhros son of Fëanor, opened his eyes and screamed._


	30. Chapter 30 : Mon sic bizarre strangers

Rivendell, Elrond's Council chambers 

Samwise Gamgee sat unnoticed at his master's feet, as the great people around him spouted grand plans and daft notions on how to destroy Mr. Bilbo's old ring.

This was not altogether a new experience for the rustic hobbit; oh, not the destroying the ring part, that was a brand-new oddness in his life, but slipping unnoticed by high-minded folk, now that he was practically a master at. It was why Mister Merry, and Mister Pippin had enlisted his assistance in the reconnaissance on Mister Frodo; it was why he'd been able to smuggle the hemlock into his father all those years ago, and it was why he could sit here now at his master's feet, unnoticed by the elves and other fine folk who were yelling so loudly.

'I will be dead before I see the ring in the hands of an Elf!'

As the yelling grew to such a level that the three hobbits ears began to ring, Mister Frodo rose from his chair. His eyes still firmly closed as they had been since the council had descended into a contest on who could scream the loudest. As he moved to the centre of the room people paused in their arguments to track the small hobbit's progress.

Reaching in to his shirt Frodo pulled the ring out, yanked it off its chain and laid it on the middle of the table in the centre of the room.

'I will take the ring to Mordor.' As he turned back to return to his chair, his eyes now fully open and observant, the noise in the chamber began to start up again. It took Gandalf swearing in the Black speech of Mordor to finally get everyone to shut up and be still at last.

'Yes,' began Elrond. 'The Ringbearer will take the ring to Mordor, of that matter I assume there is no longer room for argument' As he spoke the great Elf eyed Gandalf accusingly, as if remembering an old spat between the two.

'Yes,' said Gandalf unmoved by the glare. 'The Ringbearer has made his choice and we must see it through to the journey's completion.' He turned then to Mister Frodo and took the gentlehobbit's smaller hands in his large ones. 'I will help you bear this burden Frodo Baggins, as long as it is yours to bear.'

Strider stood then and with a stride most reminiscent of the kings he was descended from, calmly walked over to Mister Frodo and knelt in front of him.

'If by my life or death I can protect you, I will. You have my sword.'

'And you have my bow.' Said one of the elves that had attended the meeting, he had long golden hair and an air of authority about his person.

'And my axe.' Said the son of Mister Gloin; scowling hard at the elf who had spoken before him. The man from Gondor stood then and began to approach Mister Frodo with a gentle step and the feel of doubt in his voice.

'You carry the fates of us all little one, if this is indeed the will of the council then Gondor will see it done.'

Neither Gandalf nor Elrond seemed particularly surprised by this turn of events, as if it had all been planned and all the volunteers were doing now, was acting out the script. That was until the blue haired lad, sitting between two elves of Elrond's house, stood up and began to approach Mister Frodo.

'Fir mony years noo ma people hiv been separate fae the rest o ye. We had oor aen problems tae deal wi, we gave nae thocht tae fit hardships ye might hiv had tae face. Fit wye shid we care? You're under the sky, fit could be wrong there? Bit sittin here today, mon sic bizarre strangers fae distant lands, ah wonder if we were nay mistaken. If ye fail then it won't jis be yer lands that'll suffer, whose bairns will wake tae a spleet new day o' torment, an fa's homes'll burn under the enemy's torches. It'll be everyone's.'*****

He followed as the others had done then, and knelt in front of Mister Frodo. 'If ah can help ye, in anyway prevent aat, then it is ma duty as a son o' the Leomhann tae try. Ye hiv ma shield, if ye'll take it.' Frodo smiled at the blue-faced youth and nodded, and the boy rose to his feet again.

'Hey!' Samwise spoke, deciding to make himself heard at last, rising to his feet and folding his arms in a belligerent manner.

'Mister Frodo's not going anywhere without me.'

Lord Elrond looked like he was on the verge of bursting out with an outrageous guffaw at that. 'No indeed, it is hardly possible to separate you, even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not.'

'Oy!' Came a very familiar cry from behind Lord Elrond. 'We're coming too!' Two hobbits dashed past the tall elf, causing him to adopt a look of abject puzzlement, as if this had never happened to him before.

'Have to send us home tied up in a sack to stop us!' Cried Mister Merry.

'Anyway, you need people of intelligence on this sort of mission…quest…. thing.' Reasoned the youngest of the Hobbits.

'Well that rules you out Pip.' Muttered the young Brandybuck into his cousin's ear.

Having seemingly to have recovered from his shock over the continuously appearing hobbits, Lord Elrond spoke then in a voice suited to the grandeur of the occasion.

'Ten companions so be it; you shall be the Fellowship of the Ring.'

'Right,' declared Pippin Took. 'Where are we going?'

* * *

*** Doric Translation: 'For many years now my people have been separate from the rest of you. We had are own problems to deal with, we gave no thought to what hardships you might have had to face. Why should we care? You're under the sky, what could be wrong there? But sitting here today, among such bizarre strangers from distant lands, I wonder if we weren't mistaken. If you fail then it won't just be your lands that'll suffer, whose children will wake to a new day of torment, and whose homes will burn under the enemy's torches. It'll be everyone's.**


	31. Chapter 31: The Bickering Ones

Middle-Earth, a day's walk from Rivendell: T.A. 3018, December 26th

In retrospect if Calgacus had really thought his decision to join this Fellowship through, he would not have made it at all. In fact, even now a full day into their journey, he was still not sure why he had stood up in that council and proclaimed his intention to join them. But what was said could not be unsaid, and whether he regretted it or not, he was a part of this Fellowship now. A Fellowship, judging by the violence of their shivers, that were deeply regretting not leaving sooner.

They'd been walking in a stiff, rather bleak silence since they'd left Rivendell a day ago, and it was only now, that the sun had begun to descend behind the treetops did their leader – a kinsman of Pallando – raise his hand for them to stop.

The smallest members of their party collapsed to the ground in an ungainly pile, their legs unwilling to walk anymore. The wizard snorted but did not seem particularly annoyed by this occurrence.

'We will set camp for the night; this is as good a place as any we will find along this road.' As the others began to spread out their sleeping rolls around the vaguely defined campsite, Calgacus held back. He wasn't entirely sure what was wrong with him lately, it was as if he'd regressed to a youth just before his manhood ceremony; he was a full-grown married man for the cloud's sake. He should not be dawdling round the edges of the camp like some kind of scared child, too afraid to speak to anyone.

Feeling chastised and not a little ashamed of his own cowardice, Calgacus finally unrolled his bed-roll near to the middle of the camp. Around him the Little ones had set about building a fire and unloading their cooking equipment. The larger members of their fellowship seemed to have the same lacklustre approach to setting camp as he himself did, well, except the two other men, who had disappeared altogether. But the elf, the dwarf and the wizard all seemed to have flopped down on the ground in as ungainly a manner. The wizard fiddled with lighting his pipe, the elf gazed into the distance as if he was not entirely in the waking world and the dwarf…well he was keenly focused on sharpening his axe in the elf's direction.

Reflexively Calgacus' right hand curled round the handle of his own small throwing axe, wishing he'd had enough foresight to smuggle a whetstone into his bag as well. Still if ever there was a good opening for a conversation. Rising, Calgacus steeled himself and started over for the dwarf.

Just out of sight of the campsite

Boromir had trepidations about this whole expedition to begin with, one did not simply walk into Mordor after all, but if the council willed it then he would see it done. But he still believed that no one had exactly thought any of this through, especially when it came to choosing the members of the fellowship. Oh, he knew they had all stood up and volunteered themselves, himself included, but Lord Elrond and Gandalf still had to give them the okay. It wouldn't need a sack to send the hobbits back home to their Shire where they so clearly belonged.

Still as much as he disagreed with the decision to send such a soft and gentle people into the heart of the enemy's territory, it was nothing compared to the rage he felt over a certain other member of the fellowship. So as soon as the wizard had announced their stop for the night Boromir had snagged the elbow of the only other person who he thought would understand his concerns: Aragorn.

He might have had his own issues with the long-lost heir of Isildur, but this was more important than that, more important than the abandonment of his kingdom by its supposedly rightful rulers. Though he was in no mind to simply let that go, even under these circumstances

As soon as they were out of sight of the camp Aragorn had twisted his arm out of the captain of Gondor's grip and scowled at him; though it was such a slight scowl that he came off as more mildly annoyed than truly angry.

'Something has to be done about this!' Boromir burst out before the other man could scold him for such bizarre actions. Aragorn's brow creased, and he gave the son of Denethor a rather bemused look.

'Done about what? We've hardly started our journey, what could have possibly happened to distress you so?' Boromir knew that he was possibly opening himself up for ridicule from the older man, but as he had said before this was just too important to let such fears dictate his actions this day.

'The Dunlander Aragorn, the Dunlander!' Boromir hissed. 'I don't know how that savage managed to trick the wizard into letting him join but mark my words Ranger, he will be this quest's doom. His people have always been weak and fickle, easily swayed by the false rewards that the enemy can provide.'

Aragorn shook his head and gave what Boromir interpreted as a patronising pat on Boromir's shoulder.

'I have fought against the Dunlanders many times throughout my life, believe me when I say that I share your concerns about the boy.' For a second Boromir's mood lightened considerably and then Aragorn continued. 'But we must trust in Gandalf's wisdom, that too I have seen many times in my lifetime, and I have come to rely on it far more than the Dunlanders' treachery. Trust me Boromir, things will work out in the end, you just have to have faith.'

***  
Back in the camp

Men were in Gimli's opinion a very strange race, they weren't as high, mighty and despicable as elves, yet nor were they the down-to-earth reasonable sort you found most common in the dwarf and hobbit races. They were instead something quite in-between, almost as if they couldn't quite decide what they wanted to be. Really the dwarf supposed it depended on which man you spoke to.

The people of Dale for instance were generally a reasonable folk in his experience, reasonable that is unless they believed themselves to have been cheated and poorly used. Gimli had grown up on the Tales of the Battle of Five Armies after all, and he was not likely to forget that little piece of history anytime soon. The Ranger – Aragorn, Gimli believed his name was – seemed an alright fellow generally, but he often spoke in the elvish tongue around those that could not, which even if you forgot whose wretched tongue it belonged to, was a damn rude thing to do. And that man of Gondor, well Gimli didn't like to judge people – unless they were an elf – but that man really was very trying. I mean don't get him wrong, Gimli understood being proud of your heritage – he was a descendent of Durin after all – but Boromir's pride bordered on obsession. And the thing was, being a descendant of Durin meant something, he was the first of the seven Dwarven fathers and he'd reincarnated six times already, but Numenor blood? All that did was let you live a little longer, and even then, only by the standards of men.

But so long as Gimli didn't engage the brash fool in conversation they got along okay. And really the man from Gondor was like most of his race, strange but not that complicated. That was in complete contrast to the chattering youth that sat before Gimli now.

A few minutes ago, the boy had wandered over to the dwarf and asked to use the whetstone Gimli had "borrowed" from the elves. Seeing how he'd finished sharpening his own axe Gimli saw no harm in it, but the boy hadn't taken the thing away then and left Gimli to his own thoughts. No, instead he had sat down and begun a conversation, much to the irritation of the son of Gloin. They'd began with discussing weapons and their own favourites, but then had quickly moved onto oddities and peculiarities in their traveling companions, and the differences between their own cultures and races, until they'd finally landed on the topic they were on now: the odd things their mothers did that were "for their own good".

'So, then she locked the smithy and wouldn't let me in until I'd apologised, of course what she hadn't realised then was that if I couldn't get into it neither could my father. He was locked out of it for a week before anyone realised.'  
The two roared with laughter and Calgacus rolled to the ground, overcome by his own mirth.

'Why did'na he just asks yer mither for the key to the smithy, once he realised he was locked out?' The young Dunlander gasped between large gulping guffaws.

'Ach, he was scared that he'd done something to anger her and didn't want to make it worse by asking.' Another bout of giggling struck the two until they were rolling around on the ground in their laughter. This did not go unnoticed by the other members of the Fellowship; it caught the eye of young Peregrin Took who had been shooed away from the cooking area by a very annoyed Frodo.

He'd been inching his way towards the two gradually since then, until he was nearly upon them. He knew he should speak up at this point, but something held him back. He didn't know whether it was fear or some other force that held his tongue that day, but whatever it was a small part of the hobbit was grateful for it. For when Boromir of Gondor burst out of the trees and bore down on the two in righteous anger, Pippin was sort of glad he had not been a part of that conversation.

***  
Despite what some folk may or may not say Gandalf the Grey had a tremendous wealth of patience within him. He'd simply had no great call to use it of late, events were moving at too fast a pace for something like patience to really be worth considering. Or at least worth considering in himself, it would have been a tremendous asset if some of his traveling companions would have possessed it, but sadly the Valar had not seen fit to make this so. Thus, Gandalf found himself in the position he was most often acquainted with these days, trapped within the arguments of mortals.

It was surprising how easy it was to set the fellowship ablaze with such bickering. All it had taken was one angry accusation of betrayal from one foolhardy man to another, and it was like the whole world had shuddered to a stop. Boromir yelled at the boy Calgacus, Calgacus yelled right back adding his own accusations just for the fun of it, it would seem. Even then perhaps in would have stayed between the two Second Born, if Gimli son of Gloin had not reached for his axe at that point.

By the time Gandalf had woken from his silent meditation almost the entirety of the fellowship had been drawn into this little spat. Only Samwise Gamgee seemed unaffected, his attention entirely zeroed in on the sausages he was preparing – which to the hobbit's credit, smelled delicious – ignoring the pandemonium around him with the ease of someone who'd had decades of practice at it.

'Silence!'

The voices of the rest of the fellowship petered out and died in their throats. They seemed then to find their feet a far more interesting sight, their eyes remaining locked on the ground as Gandalf passed by each of them.

'One day into our journey, that is how long it took for this to happen people, one day into our journey. I'd suggest we turn back now, but I would be too afraid it would spark off another battle between you all.'

The blue faced youth raised his eyes to meet Gandalf's then in anger.

'This would nae hive happened, if some people were politer, an didn't ging aroon foggi accusations they cwid nae back up if ah set their arses on fire.'1

'Indeed, that may be so my young Dunlander friend, but axes to the face are only justifiable when battling one's enemy.'

'Fit ye think I was deing?'

Boromir raised his voice then, ire growing with each passing word.

'Perhaps you would like to finish what your filthy people started.'

'Oh, fit did we start ye great blithering gype*?'

'I may not know what that word means, but I know it's an insult,' snarled the man of Gondor.

Calgacus pushed past an irate Gandalf to get right into Boromir's face, or as close to Boromir's face as his five ft. two height would allow.

'Did we ask yer people tae invade us? Did we say ach please cum on ower, take oor land mine it aa yee like, aire's plenty o it.'2

'So, in vengeance you sent the Sickness upon us, upon Gondor, upon all the Free People of Middle-Earth.' snarled Boromir.

'The Sickness? The Sickness? Ye think we started aat? It wis yer folk aat gid dellin in the lands o the deid ye, great bliddy fool. Fit did ye think ye'd get fae it, rocks? Metal? Naw, death, death is all aat awaits those aat ging dellin in the Passage o the deid. An it were nae even yer people aat paid the heichest price, it wis mine. Fit mony lay deid? Fit mony joined their army kis Gondor couldn t take "fuck aff" as an answer?' 3

Boromir laughed at that.

'You must have been crowing in your savage little graves then, when your sickness reached our doorstep. No, price you say? No price, our price was the greatest. How many people of our Numenorean blood fell from that sickness? Too many, if you think your people's sacrifice was anything compared to ours than it is you who is the fool. What are numbers of your dead compared to ours? What is a thousand of you savage barbarians that were left standing untouched by the sickness while my Mother lay dying in agony, all because of a plague that your people started.'

'Bit we did nae start it Boromir Gypeborn! An ah'll nae be held responsible fur something ma people did nae even do; especially bi the son o the min fa actually did it.'4

'Why you filthy…'

Just as the pandemonium was about to start again, a singular voice rose above the others, and silenced them all with one simple question.

'Are you talking about the Grand Sickness?'

Seemingly as a collective, the whole fellowship turned to stare at their only member who had not been bickering and squabbling like a child this past hour. Samwise stood over the slightly burnt sausages he'd previously been watching so diligently, a look of barely suppressed grief over his scared features.

'Aye,' growled Calgacus. 'Twas the Gondor's mining aat started it, an while they mye hiv suffered fae it as wee, it wis us aat felt it first.'5

The young warrior's eyes never once left Boromir's face as he answered the hobbit.

'It starts aff simply ye see, barely mair than a stomach ache. But then the shitting begins, then the spewin, an afore ye ken it, ye can't keep onything doon.' 6

Boromir's hands curled into fists at his side, but the boy kept talking.

'Maist folk starved tae death in a matter o weeks, some though lingered on, growen weaker an weaker, a spleet new symptom each day. Was nae like normal sicknesses though, kis ye see loon, those symptoms did nae fade awa, faet aa they stayed on. The spleet new symptoms did nae replace the aul anes, they joined em.' 7

Calgacus' eyes swung down to meet the hobbit's at last.

Boromir's hand curled around the hilt of his sword as he began to un-sheave it.

'A month,' said Samwise Gamgee, grief seeping into his voice.

Boromir's sword was free from its scabbard now, he didn't even hear the hobbit speaking.

'That's how long my sister May lived after she caught it. We had that sickness in the Shire too. So, it started in Dunland, because of mining Gondor was doing?'

'Aye, even aifter the mine it cam fae caved in, it still stelled aroon. It did leave eventually o course, aathing does in the end, bit it shows back up every couple o years. Though nivver as bad as aat first time, or sae ah m telt.' 8

Boromir's sword swung.

* * *

**Doric Translation**

*Gype – the Doric word for stupid or foolish person. Gypeborn has no real meaning, it's just a nasty name Calgacus made up on the spot.

1 - 'This would not have happened, if some people were politer, and didn't go around making accusations they could not back up if I'd set their arses on fire.'

2 - 'Did we ask your people to invade us? Did we say, oh please come on over, take our land, mine it all you like, there's plenty of it.'

3 - 'The Sickness? The Sickness? You think we started that? It was your folk that went digging in the lands of the Dead, you great bloody fool. What did you think ye'd get from it, rocks? Metal? No, death, death is that all that awaits those that go digging in the Passage of the Dead. And it was not even your people that payed the highest death price, it was mine. How many lay dead? How many joined their army because Gondor couldn't take "fuck off" as an answer?'

4 - 'But we did not start it Boromir Gypeborn! And I will not be held responsible for something my people did not even do; especially by the son of the man who actually did it.'

5 - 'Twas the Gondor's mining that started it, and while they may have suffered from it as well, it was us that felt it first.'

6 - 'It starts off simply you see, barely more than a stomach ache. But then the shitting begins, then the vomiting, and before you know it you can't keep anything doown.'

7 - 'Most folk starved to death in a matter of weeks, some though lingered on, growing weaker and weaker, a new symptom each day. Wasn't like normal sicknesses though, because you see boy, those symptoms didn't fade away, they stayed on. The new symptoms didn't replace the old ones, they joined 'em.'

8 - 'Yes, even after the mine it came from caved in, it still stuck around. It did leave eventually of course, everything does in the end, but it shows back up every couple of years. Though never as bad as that first time, or so I'm told.'


	32. Chapter 32: The Cave of the Forgotten

Middle-Earth, The Shire, Northfarthing, Bindbole Wood: T.A. 2999, April 1st

Sam had never been able to say no to a girl, or at least he'd never been able to say no to any girl he knew. Which was why he was here now, standing look out, while Rosie Cotton and his sister did things behind him, rustic magic and the like. The sort of thing that could get you a hanging sentence if you got caught since Proudfoot took over.

Every snap of a twig in the distance made Sam jump, and every soft coo of a wood pigeon made him pale beneath his puckered scars. He was just about to turn around and tell the girls that they should probably head home before something terrible happened, when the loud crash from behind made the decision a moot point.

Smoke that was far too smog like and thick to be natural began to seep out around Sam's ankles. He spun around, but before he could even think to scream the smoke consumed him, and his world became grey.

'Sam!'

Marigold's voice was muffled in the fog.

'Marigold? Rosie? Where are you?'

Stumbling forward Sam followed the strangled sounds of the girls' voices, until his out stretched hands found something hard in their way. Again, he cried out for his sister and again, he cried out for Rosie, but neither of them answered.

'Marigold! Marigold! Rosie!'

Again, there was no reply, and in his frustration Sam's fists slammed against the strange stone blocking him. The smoke drained away faster than Sam could reel back from the pain, for the thing he had hit had been scolding hot.

'Sam your hand!' Marigold, who stood beside him now, grabbed for his hands, which was when it dawned on Sam that she and Rosie were in fact not dead or grievously injured, but were in fact completely fine.

'Mother Magda!'

Rosie's voice to his left brought Sam's attention back to what he had hit : it was a statue. Or at least he thought it was.

It was made of stone, of that all three hobbits could see clearly, but not of a sort that was ever found in the Shire. The strange statue was tall, taller than the three of them combined, its proud head falling only slightly short of sweeping the ceiling.

It was not a crudely carved thing by any account, but nor did it seem to be made in the way statues were made today. The features of the stone hobbit that looked down upon the three were sharp and almost feral like. As if they'd been chipped from the stone instead of carved; and had become cracked over the years the statue had stood here, forgotten. Bright stones shone in place of the eyes and gold-leaf flecked the carved fabric of the hobbit's tunic. Or at least, Sam conceded, he thought it must have been a hobbit. Yet if it was then he must have been a very strange hobbit indeed, for Sam had never seen one of his kind with hair on his lip before.

'What are you doing here?'

For a moment Sam almost thought that the voice had come from the statue himself; yet as the gnarled figure stepped out from behind it, Sam felt another flush of embarrassment at having thought something so daft.

'Be off with you, you nasty little thieves before I call the authorities.'

Both Marigold and Sam were ready to bolt at that, but Rosie stepped forward and raised her voice to the old hobbit crone.

'No, you won't.'

The two Gamgee siblings stood rooted to the spot in abject horror, as the Cotton daughter pressed on.

'You won't call the authorities on us, because if you do then we'll tell them what you're doing up here, and they'll be far more interested in that than a couple of brats that wondered off from the beaten road.'

'Why you little…'

As she was about to advance on the three tweens, the old hobbit brushed up against the statue and stopped dead. She cocked her head to the side, as if she was listening to some voice only she could hear. She smiled then and Sam was more than ready to leave at that point, no matter how rude it may have seemed. For there was something not quite of this world in that smile. It was as if the old hobbit matron knew something even the wisest in the land had failed to learn. It unnerved the boy, who had been raised on stories of the great and the wise and found even the thought that they could not know something disconcerting. Even more so when that smile was levelled at himself.

'That they would I suppose. Proudfoot does so love to stretch the neck of folk like us now, doesn't he?'

Rosie nodded slowly, some of her nerves seemingly forgotten under the weight of the old hag's smile.

'Wandered away from yer mother's apron strings, did you now?' She began to circle the three, her step jauntier than before. 'Though I suspect,' she began again, her half-blind eyes locked on Sam. 'That some of you didn't have to tug very hard to get away. Now what be the names that those sows gave ye on your birth-night? I have wish to know the names of the young folk who trespass so eagerly into my place of rest.'

Indignantly Rosie and Marigold answered, but Sam remained as silent as ever he was. He had no great desire to answer the queries of one who would insult his mother so.

'And your name is? Or shall I guess it?'

Marigold and Rosie gave Sam rather pointed looks, yet he still refused to open his mouth for the old crone. Instead he crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at her until she burst out with laughter.

'Those that don't tell, are named something different instead. So, tell me which would you prefer? Your name or somebody else's? Ugly? Scarface? Beast? Solas child of Hobbick or Samwise son of Hamfast?'

'If…if you already know my name than why do you need me to tell you it at all?'

'So, Samwise is it, or would you prefer something different, little ugly Solas?'

Sam stamped his foot in frustration.

'Oh, be away with you, old nag, my name is Samwise as ye know. Otherwise you wouldn't have suggested it.'

The old crone wrapped her arms around the statue's middle and cackled madly.

'There now that was not so hard, I wish I could give you my own name in return but alas I do not have it. He took it years ago, so he could fill my head with secrets the others won't tell.'

Rosie who had clearly had quite enough of this nonsense, pushed in. 'What others, there's no one else in the cave besides that statue. Why do you think we came up here in the first place? No one to over-hear while we worked on our rustic-arts. Well, I suppose besides from you.'

Another cackle and the old thing flopped to the ground, unable or rather unwilling to pick herself up from it.

'The rustic arts she says? Oh ho, such power we see before us my prince, such power it must have taken to botch a glamor spell so spectacularly. Such smoke to hide in; surely no one would have considered that out of the norm as you strolled down the streets of the Shire, buried in your smoke cloud. Did you hear that my lord, their rustic-arts they say, oh dear me such strength as is given to the young!'

As she cackled, she turned and began to crawl/hobble away down the passageway, and with great trepidation the three young hobbits followed her. Though, even years later Sam could not recall why any of them had thought that would be a good idea.

There was a tunnel behind the statue; it was a thin thing barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast. Hence why the four hobbits marched, or rather crawled in single file down the thing's length. Even then there was barely any room to move, and the air was thick with dust and grime and more than once Sam thought that he might be suffocating.

There were always small reliefs in every situation though, the one here being that for all its numerous faults, it was not a very long tunnel. So, they were free of its cloying presence quite quickly. Of course, upon seeing the chamber that lay beyond, all thoughts of that dark, dank and stinking tunnel fled their minds. For how can any memory so depressing stand against such magnitude?

The chamber was a large, spherically carved room; whose walls seemed to glisten with embedded copper. But it was not the shape nor the walls of the chamber that left the onlooker speechless, it was what was contained within: statues, solid silver statues.

Stumbling forward, her knees still bent from crawling Rosie reached out to one of them, her hand freezing just before it could touch the beautiful thing.

'The Blarney Son!'

Neither Sam or Marigold had ever seen a depiction of the Blarney Son before – neither of their parents had been followers of his teachings after all – but they had certainly heard a great deal about him from the Cottons. Many tales told of his great courage & valour, and of course his skill in magic was unparalleled; but none had ever spoken of his mighty scowl, or his sloping forehead or the fact that he carried around a spear that was at least four feet taller than he was.

To see all that now, in such a silver-plated form, left them voiceless – which considering Mrs. Gamgee's aversion to loud noises in her house, was not all that rare an occurrence. Rosie on the other hand, lacked the capacity to remain silent.

'What are these things? What the Blarney is this place?'

Neither Sam or Marigold had the answer to that question, but it would appear someone behind them certainly did.

'These are hobbits from before.'

Sam spun around, expecting to see the old crone emerge from wherever she'd disappeared off to the second they'd entered the chamber. Yet it was not her, in fact it seemed to be absolutely no one at all, the voice had simply come from the air around them.

'Well that doesn't answer anything!' Snapped Rosie, unaware of the chamber's increase in temperature as she talked.

'What does "hobbits from before" even mean? Before what exactly? Before the Shire, before the founding of the three tribes, before they were hobbits? What, tell me you old hag, what the Blarney do you mean by all this?'

Finally, the girl spun round ready to give the old crone a good tongue lashing for her grief. Yet as Sam had found before her, there was simply no one there.

'Before?' Said the air around the three. 'Why before all that you know now, child. Before this very second even. All which is past to our kind is remembered in this place, for you stand now within the Cave of the Forgotten.' With that last word the voice screamed at them, all the air seemed to be sucked out of the chamber. Huddling together the three fell to the ground and began to sob with terror and the voice continued to bellow

'We will not fade into less than legend, just because it is convenient for the mighty. We will not vanish just to ease someone else's conscience, we are here, and We Shall Not Fade! See now what has been hidden, see now what they fear. See now the future that awaits us all.'

From amidst the darkness that now encased the room Sam saw something flash; something long and sharp.

One day from Rivendell: T.A. 3018, December 26th

Over the shoulder of the blue-faced boy Sam saw now the same long and sharp thing he'd seen then, and this time he was ready for it.

Boromir's sword clattered to the ground and he howled in pain as he followed suit. Sam lowered the frying pan and nodded to the others, who all stood speechless as the gardener turned around to finish dishing out dinner for the night.

'Well,' said Gandalf finally getting a hold of himself. 'With luck that will be the end of your bickering. But I must admit I highly doubt it.' And with that last statement, he strolled over to the fire to receive his share of the slightly ruined sausages.


	33. Chapter 33: Lord of Moria's Hospitality

Gates of Khazad-dûm ; T.A. 3019, January 14th

A beautiful thing lay before them, a golden glory of the days of old – when men were not but a minor power, and dwarves and elves roamed freely across the land. This was Moria, this was the Kingdom of Durin's folk.

When the Fellowship had arrived, tired, cold, and out of breath from their scrape with the wild wolves of the west– it seemed like the very gates themselves glowed with welcome for the travellers. The Dwarves that had stood guard as the gates opened had turned and smiled at them, and Aragorn was not too proud to say that he almost wept. He had been in complete agreement with Gandalf of his distrust of the Mines of Moria, for even if Balin had succeeded in conquering them, the evil there had been crowded so close to the surface. And yet on sight of those gates, he felt tremendously foolish to have thought so. Moria was not at all how it had been last time he had cause to come this way, there wasn't even water at its base, let alone a Watcher. In fact, now that he was closer, he could see the beast, or rather its head. On atop seven spears, sat the decapitated head of such a creature, that would make even a trained ranger as he bulk to pass it.

Great evil had been here, and yet great evil had been bested by the forces of mortal hand. He didn't know why, but somehow seeing that beast, half rotten and foul, gave him hope. If one small band of dwarves could fell such a monster as had once lurked near the gates of Moria, why could men not rise to a greater challenge, why could men not fell a greater beast…perhaps…perhaps there was hope to be found in Gondor.

Maybe…after this was all over, he and Boromir would return, and all would be good in the world.

A large clang and Aragorn realised that in his wonder at the beauty of the gates of Moria he had stumbled into one of the hobbits. It was not Frodo, thank the Valar for that, but it had still been knocked over as such small things where often wont to do in such mighty company.

'I am sorry.'

The Heir of Isildur said as he helped the small creature to stand, in the dark of the night it was difficult to tell the hobbits apart. They all seemed so alike in disposition when marching through the forest, that it sometimes made Aragorn's head ache. But he would not dishonour the little fellow by misnaming him.

The fellow waved him off, in irritation.

'I'm fine, I'm fine…just a right queer sight is all, half forgot to walk. Dwarves make such pretty gates…I'd half forgotten…how pretty…they could make them when they weren't fighting.'

He sounded half in a trance, as if trying to recall a faraway dream he'd had many moons ago.

Then from closer to the doors, one of the other hobbits called to them.

'Strider, Sam! Stop dawdling in the entrance and get in here…they can't close the gates to the cold if you're still standing there.'

And the light from the hall shone bright and illuminated the scared features of Samwise Gamgee.

Gimli had wanted to come here.

He had to keep reminding himself of that fact, as dwarves who had once been playmates in childhood, pushed those mighty gates closed.

Gimli had wanted this, to be here among them…the great adventurers who had taken back the Kingdom of Durin from the monsters who had snatched it off him. And yet…there was something wrong here, he had felt it as they approached the gates, which had been opened to the world, and hardly guarded at all.

Two Dwarves how was that enough to keep off the bands of Wargs that roamed the countryside around Khazad-dûm? It wasn't, it was never enough…it was almost as if they wanted the wolves to come, as if they welcomed them.

No, no, he was being ridiculous…no one would be foolish enough to welcome those wolves, not even an orc, and his people were far superior to an orc…weren't they?

The Fellowship were led down a long winding tunnel, whose walls felt too close for comfort. What was wrong with him, a dwarf claustrophobic, while the elf marched ahead his head aloft in such splendour, as if he belonged here. As if he was the one that had come home to family long thought lost. Gimli's cheeks went red, and he felt his feet stumble into the person walking beside him.

One of the hobbits…Pippin, if he remembered correctly…squawked indignantly as he was half crushed under the dwarf's weight. Regaining his own footing, Gimli caught the little fellow's elbow just before he struck the floor.

'I'm sorry, I wasne looking where I was going.'

The hobbit glared at him for a second, his small face screwed up in consternation, and then for seemingly no reason at all, he laughed. A loud laugh that resounded throughout the caverns of the tunnel, and Gimli…found himself joining in for some reason. He couldn't help it, the sound bubbled up and over him and he felt a wealth of warmth for the small creature in front of him. For someone so small, in a world where the large reign, a hobbit's laugh was a strange thing indeed.

Maybe that was why it was so infectious.

He found himself roaring with the weight of it, and slapping his own knees, to slow his mirth…but nothing could, and it wasn't long before the whole cave was laughing with them.

He'd wanted to come here, to be in these halls, where once the greatest of his ancestors had roamed.

And for the first time since he'd stepped foot into the place, he began to remember why.

They were led through a tunnel too thin for anyone but the hobbits – and maybe the Dwarf if he sucked his gut in – to walk two abreast. It was dark, it was stifling, it was everything Legolas had ever imagined a Dwarf Kingdom to be, and then they emerged, and suddenly nothing was as he'd expected it.

They were in not a small, dark smelly cave, but a glittering, glorious hall – twice as magnificent as his own father's palace. It was something beautiful, gems glowed from the walls, the shimmer of reds, blues and violet tapestry blinded the elf and in amongst them all – on a throne of simple stone – sat a dwarf, wrapped all in the white fur of a Wolf.

This must be Balin.

He did look familiar, though the elf couldn't say for sure whether they'd encountered each other before or not – dwarves had all looked the same to him back then. Back when the company of Thorin Oakenshield had crossed his father's borders. Tauriel had not thought so, why else would she have chosen…why else would she have let herself be seduced by one of those mindless mud-grubbers. That creature had stolen her from him, she didn't love Legolas not back then anyway, but maybe she would have come to if…if…if it had not come in the way.

That was the lie he told himself when the dwarf died, when he'd had to watch her fade…no, that wasn't true he'd left before that could happen. He'd left, and he'd never come back…his father might have thought it was him that kept his son away for so many years now, but it wasn't, it was her.

It was the dwarf.

All dwarves…they'd taken her from him…the company of Thorin Oakenshield had taken her, and now one of them sat here…amongst the splendour of his people…it wasn't fair…none of it was fair.

'Greetings, Legolas of the Woodland Realm to my humble Kingdom.'

While Legolas had been lost within his own memories the others had been talking, had been introducing themselves, and the dwarf on the stone throne had addressed him personally.

'This is no Kingdom.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'This is no Kingdom, dwarf. To be a kingdom one must first have a king, and you are no king.'

The Dwarf looked at him, cocking his white beard to the side like an oversized cat.

'Not a King? Tis but a title, and within these halls King or no I still rule all. And I'd like ye to remember that.'

Legolas gave a mock bow to the dwarf, all his years of diplomacy forgotten in one instance of spite.

'I do apologise Lord Balin, but of course you do, after all while a King is away the Lord shall have all the power, he deems fit.'

He felt sharp stab in the side– Mithrandir had not been subtle in his jab to the elf's left, but the dwarf to his right had slammed his elbow so hard into Legolas' hip, that the son of Thranduil nearly fell from the force of the blow.

He didn't of course, but the dwarf certainly did when Legolas struck back.

Boromir did not belong here, he'd been feeling that a lot lately, but never so strongly as he did in the stronghold of the line of Durin. This was a land of the Dwarves, it had been sculpted by Dwarven hand, dug out by their spades, and guarded possessively for longer…for longer than Boromir's line had existed. He wasn't certain of that last fact; the ins and outs of diplomacy and history had been Faramir's foray…never his.

Yet as Gimli and Legolas were forcibly separated and escorted out of this most ancient of halls, and the rest of the Fellowship were left standing awkwardly in their wake, he severely wished that it had been. Maybe then he would have found something clever to say, something that would ease the tension. But as it stood now, he simply stood there, as silent as the stone around him, as Gandalf spoke soothing words to their host.

'Hail Balin son of Fundin, Lord of Moria…I would apologise for Gimli and Legolas' behaviour, but you've met both their fathers, this should not be a surprise to you.'

For less than the time it would have taken to blink, Balin son of Fundin looked confused. As if he didn't know their fathers at all, as if they were entirely strangers to him. But then the look was gone, and he was smiling deep within his beard again.

'Hm, never thought I would see the sight of two of their spawn traveling in the wilderness together. But I suppose strange times call for strange companies. Come, sit beside me, so that we may talk of pleasanter days when the shadow of the east was not so far past one's doorstep. There were scouts speaking of a strange group indeed coming to me for aid, so I have had a feast prepared. Come let us eat and revel as we once did, my old friend.'

'Yes,' said Gandalf stiffly. 'Let us eat.'

The night moved swiftly after that, the wine and the beer and the ale flowed too keenly for Boromir, so by the time he was shown to his chambers for the night, he was much too drunk to call his guide back and request somewhere else to sleep. Somewhere perhaps that did not already have someone in it.

Which was a pity indeed, considering who was in there.

The boy had not drunk as much, yet that hardly seemed to matter, for a single goblet of Dwarven Ale had floored him. It was as if he'd never had a drop of alcohol in his life, somehow that marginally ruined the image of the boy as a savage warrior from a decrepit land for Boromir. It was easy to view the youth as a…a savage creature hardly worthy of the title of man, out in the wild. But here, in a strange city where neither of them belonged, even less than the rest of the Fellowship…it was hard not to see how painfully young the boy was.

The man of Gondor slumped into the chair by the window, if he was to have any chance of sleeping this headache off…then he had best get started.

Gandalf did not like Moria, it was the simplest way of explaining all the conflicted feelings he felt for this mighty dwarf kingdom, but it was the truest. For what he felt was not quite fear, yet he could not claim to feel calm and at ease either, despite the beauty all around him.

He'd felt it the second he'd stepped through the doors, there was something sick in the land of Moria. He almost thought, rather spitefully, that it would have been better to find it in ruins, its people dead, and its halls swarming with all manner of foul and wretched things. No, no, that was just his petty side speaking…surely it was better to find a healthy and hearty ally, ready to shelter and feast with them till the morning sun did breach the sky. Yet there was something distinctively sick about the way the dwarves of Moria looked, something about the way no one would walk alone, or the way they gazed at the fellowship with mistrusting eyes. Even Gimli, who was kin to more than many of them received downright hostile looks from the dwarves of this kingdom.

But if it were anything that made the Grey Istari suspect something, it was the Lord of Khazad-dûm himself, Balin. They had been greeted with all the pomp and ceremony such a party deserved, yet there was something in the old dwarf's eyes. It wasn't something necessarily mean or evil, but it was unfamiliar and in times like these that could be as dangerous in an ally as it was in an enemy.

'Gandalf, my old friend.' Gandalf embraced the old dwarf pretending he didn't notice the wrong inflection on his name or the way the hug was just a tad too awkward for old comrades such as they.

'Balin, I see that Moria flourishes. You didn't have any trouble with goblins, did you? I've heard terrible tales of the infestation in Moria.' Balin laughed but again it was wrong, not how Balin son of Fundin should laugh at all.

'No, no trouble at all my good Maiar.' A lie, one among many it would seem and when had Balin learned Gandalf's true species? It was impossible for him to know, something was terribly wrong with this version of Balin, so much so that Gandalf even begun to suspect that it wasn't Balin at all but someone else. Someone masquerading as the former member of Thorin's company, but who?

'You know who he feels like, Old Proudfoot.'

Merry growled and burrowed his head deeper between his two pillows, he would never get to sleep at this rate.

'I don't care Sam, go to sleep or I swear to the Valar I will knock you out cold.'

'I'd like to see you try Mister Merry Sir, but I'm just saying all this Lord Balin's oddity awfully reminds me of Faldo Proudfoot. He's shifty and did you see him during the feast? I swear on my life that Dwarf did not take one bite of the food on his plate. He doesn't eat Mister Merry, what does that tell us?'

'That you pay way too much attention to what everyone else is eating. Now go to sleep Sam, I don't know what Proudfoot's eating habits have to do with his villainy; but if Balin is like Proudfoot there's nothing either of us can do about it right now. So why don't you just go the Morgoth to sleep or I will hit you.'

The Gardener huffed a laugh into his own pillow. 'Well if you're sure Mister Merry, I'm just saying it ain't right the way he acts, and I bet you Mister Gandalf thinks just the same.'

'I don't care go to sleep. Gods why did they stick me with you, I thought I was gonna get Pip as a room-mate. Though I suppose he's a quieter bed-mate for Frodo than you would be. Sam? Sam, damn it Samwise Gamgee you kept me up with your ceaseless worrying, you don't get to fall asleep in the middle of my angry rampage. Sam, SAM!'

But Samwise Gamgee was already fast asleep.

Caranthir could feel the dwarf's spirit squirming around inside of him, he was not dead like he was supposed to be. No one ever told you what you were supposed to do when your host body was not dead.

Day in and day out the stupid pest tried to gain control over their body, but it was no use: Caranthir was the mightier of the two, he was the oldest, and in this match at least, he would not be bested. He did not deserve such a fate, to be locked inside a body which he had no control over…no, that was something that…that happened to other people…it wouldn't happen to him.

In fact, he'd been so determined not to let it happen to him that he was almost too tired to stay awake during the welcome feast that night. Humph, welcome feast, it had been his adviser's idea…if he'd had his way, they would have closed the gates and let them all freeze to death. But apparently that would look bad to the other free peoples of middle earth and Caranthir had no plan to accidentally start a war. You know, this time.

But this fellowship unnerved him. Never mind that the only dwarf amongst them seemed to share close kinship with not only this body, but one of the dwarves who he'd fed to the watcher in the water, back when it was still manageable enough to contain. Really it had been for everyone's good, a dwarf as deaf as that would only slow the herd down.

Still, it was almost good that the stupid nephew of the dwarf had started the fight with that blond elf in the green garments. The Elf wasn't Noldor blood, obviously, but the features were slightly familiar, maybe he'd come across his ancestor once…a long time ago. Really the King of Moria had no choice, the way that impudent swine had spoken to him he'd have had him escorted out even if the brawl hadn't started.

Yet it was the Wizard that unnerved him the most, a Maiar, so close to his seat of power was an uncomfortable thought even just in passing.

It hadn't helped any that that stupid round creature…one of the hobbits, kept giving him strange looks. As if it could see what he was, well the son of Fëanor could not have that, something had to be done about it.

The members of the fellowship knew too much about this vessel, and that Maiar well he had certainly been an unpleasant surprise. For one terrifying second Caranthir had believed himself caught and had been almost ready to throw himself on his own sword.

Not that that would have helped his situation a great deal, he'd have just had to find another body to inhabit. Oh, Valar why did everything bad happen to him? It wasn't as if he was even the worst of the Fëanorians. He didn't even really want to find his wayward brothers and father. Let them run amok around this realm, he was quite satisfied ruling over his own small kingdom of dwarves. So why were these creatures so insistent on driving him away from his comfort and into the cold arms of his family.

Well it wouldn't do at all; no, he would simply have to remove the unfortunate elements in his kingdom like he had so many times before. The drums were going again in the deep and they had to be satisfied, sometimes in great times a sacrifice had to be offered and if it just so happened to be someone who was a threat to him…his people, well it was all for the greater good.

Inside his chest Balin son of Fundin screamed.

They are bundled up, him and the dwarf, into a room that resembles a cell as much as Mordor resembled a Garden. It was large, and finely furnished in plums and golds, and on a small table in the middle of the room, sat two plates both piled high with food.  
Strange to be so treated by such creatures as were the children of Aulë. Had they been expecting a scuffle, expecting to have their own kinsman escorted from the halls of his forefathers or were these meals for someone else. Someone perhaps, who had not had such a pleasant stay in the dungeons of Moria.

The Dwarf, blusterous and eager for food as a dog, stomped over to the table – made small by the glory around it – and bent over to inspect the contents of the plates more closely. Legolas couldn't help the scoff that escaped his lips then, the dwarf's ears were keener under the rock and he turned on the elf, his face as red as the velvet of King Thranduil's cape.

'Have you something more to say, Elf?'

Legolas looked away, unwilling to waste more air arguing with the insipid little warrior.

The Dwarf scoffed; his voice too loud for elven ears to ignore.

'Well, that's just typical of the elves. They'll scream and rage and throw a fuss when there's people around to protect them, but Mahal forbid they stand up to answer for their actions. For the lives they've ruined, the warriors they cut down.'

Legolas laughed at that.

'What are you winging on about, Dwarf, what warriors? As if any of your race could reach so high as to lift a sword to my people. You are foul master dwarf, and ignorant to boot. You speak of things you have no knowledge of, and matters you lack the capacity to understand.'

The Dwarf giggled at that, low and cruel like a spider's bite.

'And what exactly do I not have the capacity to understand?'

'How can I explain, you do not know the evil in which your kind have wrought upon the world with your greed. Have you any understanding the terror the other free peoples have suffered thanks to the folly of Aulë.'

'The Folly of Mahal was that he did not take a sword to every elf that dared to wander into his workshop. And you want to talk about evil wrought upon the world? What about the Silmarils, gems of such beauty they'd make any elf lose his mind completely, or at least enough to butcher their own kin.'

'How dare…'

'Or the Ring of Power itself, we mustn't forget that my good Thranduil. Was it not the elves that created all the rings of power, including the one, and the seven cursed to my forefathers of old? Speak to me of evil wrought by my people's hand when you have paid, for all the terror, all the horror, all the blood that you have cursed on the lands of Middle Earth.'

Legolas reeled as if struck by physical blow, but never let it be said that the son of Thranduil was slow of tongue in matters such as these.

'How quick your tongue is Master Dwarf, how well you spin your tales of woe, to make it seem that it is the First Born who are to blame. It is something that even my people cannot fully comprehend, the depths your people will sink to, to take things that do not belong to you.'

'And what have we stolen from you?'

'You stole her!'

It slipped out, he hadn't meant to say it, he hadn't meant to ever speak of it…of her again in this life. And yet he had, and in front of this dwarf no less, the kinsman of…of the creature that had stolen her from him.

'Her?'

Said the creature as dumb as the rock under his foot, Legolas should stop, Legolas should turn around and leave now, run away where not even the Balrogs of Morgoth could find him. But it had been so long in silence…so long not thinking about her that he couldn't stop. He couldn't stop talking.

'How can you not know her name, her story? The Elf who fell for the Dwarf, who cast off her people like they were so much baggage and ran away with the Line of Durin.'

'Line of…? You speak of the elf maiden of Mirkwood…Balin said once that had he not died that day Killi would have taken her to wife.'

'Wife…wife…she was meant to be my wife, that's what we agreed. So many years she had been my friend, the only one I could confide in…we'd promised each other when we were nothing more than children that we would be wed. That when my father left for the undying lands or passed on that we would rule our kingdom together…as a force to be reckoned with. It was all going to plan; my best friend would be my queen and then my father would never have to…to know…why I've never wanted any other maiden.'

'Oh.'

Legolas froze, he had been so lost in his own rage and hatred for the line of Durin, that he'd almost forgotten that he was not alone in this cell. That he had an audience, an audience that he should have been screaming at instead of just near.

'Then she is dead.'

Legolas turned away, moving his back to face the dwarf.

'It doesn't matter, the Dwarf she chose is dead, and whether you know it or not Tauriel will fade until she's nothing…nothing but a shell…nothing but a rustic creature…until at last she leaves her body to return to the halls of Mandos, where we all must go in the end.'

The Dwarf's voice sounded harsh in reply.

'You are mad, I've always known elves were mad and cruel …and yet I find myself pitying you. I've never been in love…as your kind would define it…perhaps I never shall, but I understand what it's like to lose someone close to you. Kili and Fili were my cousins…Thorin too…and I cannot say what dark place my Uncle Oin has fallen in to, the gleam in Balin's eyes speaks of nowhere kind.'

Legolas stilled, his heart beating too loudly in his own ears for comfort.

'You saw it too.'

It was in that moment, that brief speck in time when dwarf and elf where of one mind, when the guards descended.

Merry had just about given up on getting a good's night's sleep, when he was wrenched from his bed by a group of unruly and thoroughly unpleasant dwarves. From deeper within the chamber Merry could hear the startled cries of Sam Gamgee as he was unkindly startled from sleep at the point of an axe.

Merry struggled and kicked as the dwarves dragged him up and out of the sleeping chamber. Was Gimli the only decent dwarf? Oh, why had cousin Bilbo set on a journey with such terrible and spiteful creatures. If he'd believed in the old ways like Gamgee and his kin, then he might have sent many a dwarf a death curse that night, but as it was, he didn't. For unlike the Ancestors, the Valar held no curses for your enemies, short or long lived. Certainly nothing like the sort of bile coming out of the young gardener's mouth. They were technically in Hobbitish, and it was very unlikely that even a devotee of the rustic ways like Gamgee knew what they meant, since very few hobbits still spoke it. Neither did Merry technically but he understood enough to make out most of what his cousin's gardener was spouting.

'May Hobbick's screams of anguish bound in yours and your children's ears till the end of my line.'

The only word that completely flummoxed the next Master of Buckland was the word Hobbick. It could mean hobbit of course but somehow Merry doubted it, perhaps it was a name. A name of one of the Ancestors, now that would be quite something. Up until now Merry had always considered them a faceless collective entity that those of the more rustic folk tried to apply to their past. Maybe to try and explain why hobbits had none.

An odd thought certainly to have, while you were being forced out of bed at the point of a sword.

Gandalf slammed another dwarf into the wall, luckily, he hadn't been sleeping when they'd arrived in the night, he rarely slept at all these days. Too much could happen while he was out to let his guard down like that, for instance a group of dwarven guards dragging him off to be sacrificed to their Morgoth blessed monster.

The dwarf at the end of his staff crumpled to the floor, holding his midsection as he sobbed out profanities against the wizard. Strange, he had never known dwarves to be the most pleasant of races especially when they were resistant to his manipulations, even if they were for their own good – but to be so thoroughly cowardly as to attack a guest while they slept in your home, well, he'd never have thought them capable of that. It was almost as if…it wasn't a dwarf behind those eyes at all.

He had been right all along; something was terribly wrong with these dwarves. The drums were getting louder now as the blank eyed dwarves pushed the wizard back down the tunnel towards it. He couldn't drive them off, not without landing mortal blows, which he was unwilling to do to any creature not of Morgoth's creation.

You Shall Not Pass!

Those are the worlds that would echo in Gimli's mind for as long as he should live. Damn Balin, damn the whole kingdom of Khazad-dûm. But he could rage and scream at his own kin until his throat bled, it wouldn't change the truth that it had been he, Gimli son of Gloin, who had caused this. If they had only gone through the gap of Rohan, maybe then they might have been safe. Maybe then Gandalf wouldn't have had to slow the Balrog down enough for the rest of them to make their escape. Maybe then he wouldn't have fallen. And then maybe there wouldn't be a hollow in the dwarf's chest that no amount of crying and screaming seemed to lessen.

'We must make for the woods of Lothlorien before nightfall.' Aragorn said, his face grown oddly blank and distant since their escape from Moria.

'Have some Pity for Mercy's sake man, have they no time to rest?' Boromir growled

'It'll be dark before long and I do not know what creatures those were, but they were not dwarves and they meant to kill us. We must get the others up or everything he worked for will be for nothing.'

Gimli stood up scowling at the pair of bickering men as he walked over to the elf who stood on a rock a little away from the others.

'Maybe we should leave before those two bring the whole kingdom of Moria down on us.'

'Kingdom?' The elf said blankly. 'Tell me you don't consider that place still a kingdom? I thought you brighter than that master Dwarf.' Gimli bit down hard on his own tongue less he says something that would only serve to provoke another argument between the two of them. He could tell by the tone of the elf's voice that his words weren't meant to be cruel or even as a derisive of Gimli's culture as he normally was. The Elf was in as much shock as the rest of them, he just was less used to expressing it.

'I know master Elf; my cousin's realm is no Kingdom, but a thraldom and I make no great pleasure in admitting it to you.' The elf nodded then and turned back to gazing into the distance impassively.

'Right then, well I'll just help the hobbits off the ground myself, shall I?' The elf grunted in the back of his throat but gave no other indication that he had heard. The dwarf moved away in the direction of the quietly sobbing Halflings.

Damn Khazad-dûm , damn it straight to Morgoth's Fire.

A dream came to the Lord of Moria the night that he sacrificed the Fellowship to the drumming in the deep. He was back at home, in his mother's workshop and he was a child again. It was just like he remembered it, the clanking of his grandfather's old anvil, the sweltering heat and the sound of his parents raised voices.

'You truly have gone mad, my love.'

'Mad? Do you call pride in one's own accomplishments and creations madness? I must tell you wife that we have very different views of the world then.'

'Please just think for one second what you're doing Fëanor, before you plunge us into a fate that we may never be able to pull ourselves up from. Please think my love, I know you meant no ill-will to your brother that day.'

'He's not my brother. He's just a case of leftover want my father couldn't shake off. He should never have been born; it was obscene for my father to marry again. Everyone knows so, everyone says so, it is the way of our people and my father just disregarded all for the sake of simple Lust.'

His mother's voice was angry when it finally replied.

'So, you think you have the right to dictate how others live their lives Fëanor? What if your sons had a wife who died, so they married someone else and had children with her? Would you denounce them as you have your brothers? Would they be worthy enough to belong to the precious line of Finwë?'

There was a sound of a hard slap, and a body being thrown across the floor by the impact. The Lord of Moria cried for his mother and tried to go to her. But he couldn't, he was locked in his father's closet, screaming so hard that his throat began to bleed.

Blood swelled up and out of his mouth like some form of hideous saliva. He screamed but his mother's and father's voices were silent. He could no longer see for he was blind and all he could hear was the laugh of that dwarf stuck inside his skull.

'You don't belong here, neither of us do. So, what you'll do when you wake from this nightmare is disappear. You and I will leave my Moria and never return. I don't care where we go, but we cannot stay here.'

The Lord shook his head, pounding it against the back of the wardrobe, he would not listen to this pest. He would not. He had fought the dwarf's voice before; he would fight it again. And maybe this time he even would have won, finally at long last. Yes, maybe he would have if that other voice hadn't called his name.

**'Caranthir'**

A strange sound, a voice so old and rough that it sounded like smoke. He had never heard such a thing before, not even in his darkest of dreams.

**'Feed my people to a creature like that? How degraded your spirit must have become invader – even the wretch who started this whole nonsense wouldn't have done something like that.'**

His father, the voice spoke of his father – Caranthir tried not to think about what Feanor would say about all this. He wouldn't understand, he had to do it. He had to appease the creature; otherwise how would he ever be a good king to his people if their bodies were consumed. Many would just die, being mortal in nature, but many more would be cast to the elements and forced to find a new home for their wandering spirit. No better than when he had found them all.

**'Get out.'**

It shuddered in his ear drums, but he would not listen, he could not.

**'Get out'**

The voice made even the dwarf inside of him tremble, but the son of Fëanor would not give in.

And the voice seemed to laugh at that.

'**Then may my screams of anguish bound in yours and your children's ears till the end of my line.'**

And then a scream came to him, a scream so terrible, and so loud that the Elf was certain it would fell even a beast like the Balrog. It certainly felled him. And throughout that terrible, butchering noise the only words of comfort came from the dwarf inside his chest.

'We cannot stay here.'

Cannot stay here, those are the words that the guards heard from the royal chamber. It did not occur to them to check that their lord was alright, for he often had nightmares of such a nature.

They regretted that choice when upon opening their lord's chamber the next morning, they found his bed to be decidedly empty. The 'dwarves' of Khazad-dûm searched frantically for their lord, but he was gone. And no one would hear from Balin son of Fundin for quite some time, not until…well that would be telling now wouldn't it.


	34. Chapter 34: The Rustic Arts of Elves

Arda, Middle-Earth, The Golden Wood: T.A. 3019, January 15h

The Golden wood was…beautiful in Sam's opinion. Maybe not as beautiful as the Shire at the height of summer, or Rosie Cotton practicing her magic, but still quite beautiful none the less. Being blindfolded through half of it though hadn't exactly endeared the gardener to the wood's inhabitants. Maybe he would have been more forgiving if it were just him, this was the Elves home after all and these weren't exactly the most trusting times. But to blindfold Mister Frodo after everything he'd gone through, well that was just a profanity against fairness. Hadn't they all lost enough already, now they had to lose their eyes as well?

Still, when they finally did take the blindfolds off, the place was, as he'd said before, quite beautiful. Almost enough to forgive the Elves for their treatment of the Fellowship, yet one glance at the worn-down look in Mister Frodo's eyes, or the deeply hurt and angry one in Mister Gimli's, and Sam decided it would take more than that.

Middle-Earth, Lothlorien: T.A. 3019, January 15th

Despite the look of things, Galadriel had been expecting the fellowship – she just hadn't been expecting them so soon, nor so few of them. Gandalf was not among them, and her feelings told her he was not among anyone anymore. He had fallen into darkness, and out of her sight. This troubled her a great deal more than she cared to reveal to her husband, nor to any confidant who would care to listen.

So much so in fact that if she let her thoughts dwell on it for too long, then her despair would overpower her hope, and she would begin to fade. So, she did the only thing in her power to stop that, she turned her mind to other things.

When they had first come before her Galadriel had investigated the minds of the Fellowship and seen… many things there: pain, grief, distant and strange lands, where the language of the elves was profaned by…by creatures of the other world. And yet, despite all of that it was the guilt that came strongest from them all. They all blamed themselves in some way for losing the wizard: Gimli son of Gloin, because it had been his idea to go to halls of his kin, Frodo Baggins because he had sanctioned it, and the others simply because they had not been fast enough, not been strong or quick enough, not been smart enough to stop the wizard's fall.

She also sensed disapproval directed at her and her people from one of the hobbits. It was such a tonal-shift among the walls of grief that clouded each of their minds that it almost caused the great Galadriel, Lady of the Golden Wood, to break into a smile.

She remained in control only by her own sheer force of will, and she made a small decision then to speak deeper with the hobbit who seemed so disapproving of her people's actions. But for now, she had more important things on her mind, she must test the Fellowship's loyalty to the quest and to the Ringbearer himself.

Middle-Earth, Lórien: T.A. 3019, that night

Boromir sat with his head clutched between his hands, trying to drown out the memory of her voice. So soft, so gentle that it almost fooled him into trusting her, almost fooled him…into giving in, letting her inside to twist his mind to her own whims. But he was a son of Gondor…and no matter what the temptation, he would not give in. Be it a beautiful woman with a soft, melodic voice or…or a ring, that shone even when the light did not hit it.

He knew someone was behind him, he didn't need a snap of a twig to tell him that. Spinning round, Boromir had unsheathed his sword and pointed at the boy's throat quicker than the brat could breath. Or so he'd thought, but the hard clang of metal on metal robbed him of that notion – the silver horse, a strange horn perched on its forehead, emblazoned on the shield of Calgacus Aon-adharcach, shimmered in the pale moonlight of this Elvish Land.

'Ah'm nay disturbing ye, am ah?'*

The boy's voice was lilting, possessing a quality of laughter within its crooked depths which the man of Gondor had never noticed before. If anything, it made the round youth all the more grating for it.

'You are, but I highly doubt admitting that will get you to leave.'

The boy laughed again, deep and grating like the Wild men of the Woods of Rohan. How could one person embody all the disagreeable traits of all the enemies of Gondor? It must have been deliberate, not even the wild Dunlanders could produce a child so vile.

'Nae, if anything ah think it'll prompt me tae sit doon.' **

And so, he did, right beside Boromir, who couldn't truly find it in him to fight anymore. Well, other than to half beg in desperation for the boy to please…

'Leave me alone, I have not the mind to fend off your jibes tonight, Dunland.'

'Then neen shall leave me mouth, Gondor. Bit ah'll open ma lugs if ye've a care tae clype me yer worries.'***

'And why would I do that?'

'Neen sae fair tae hear yer secrets, as the ear o the enemy.'****

'I assume that's some ridiculous saying from your homeland.'

'Well Aye, but I feel it fits the situation, what where ye thinking of that brought ye so low as te weep louder that a hobbit's snoring?'

Should he say? The boy was a fool, and yet they already disliked each other …how much lower could he fall in the eyes of this young felon. And more importantly, would Boromir really care if he did?

'Do you ever hear it?'

'Fit?'

'The Voice in your head.'

'Wouldna that be the Lady's voice, or something darker? Something golder perhaps?'

'Both, neither, yes…yes that.'

Calgacus sighed beside him, his own shoulders slumping as his mighty shield slid to the ground before the two men.

'Aye, it fair go take a greater spirit than ah tae block it oot entirely. Ah hear it sometimes, whispering tae me…spikkin o a better life ah could mak wi it, a land far ma wife an child dinna hiv tae bide an breath the same air as the deid. It's how ah ken it's lying, son of Denethor.'*****

Boromir felt his breath catch in his throat, memories of the ring's own whispered promises of a better life, a life where Gondor would grow proud and strong once more, ringing in his ear.

'It's a thing of evil, its canna put a stop to evil.'

Middle-earth, Lórien: T.A. 3019, January 17th

It was Mister Frodo who woke Sam up in the middle of the night not, as they would joke later, the singing of the elves. The other hobbit didn't mean to or nothing, but during the course of their journey Sam had become acutely aware of Mister Frodo's movements. So, when the gardener had heard the tell-tale sound of his master trying to sneak away, well, he took a great deal of notice.

He knew he shouldn't be such a worry-wart, not in this place at least. The Lady Galadriel kept her home well-guarded –the fellowship could attest to that right enough – and she seemed to be the friendly sort. She reminded him of Rosie a bit, just as beautiful and just as terribly powerful when you provoked their wrath. So yes, Sam was fully aware that he was being ridiculous when he got up and followed Mister Frodo, but he couldn't stop himself. This journey had been too fraught with death as it was, they couldn't lose another – certainly not Mister Frodo.

It didn't take long to catch up with his master - a lack of proper hobbit food had done none of them a great deal of good – and the other hobbit seemed neither surprised or disturbed by the sound of his servant's clumsy footsteps behind him. That was most likely because his mind was far too preoccupied by the Elven Lady to give much thought to Sam.

Tall and fair as the golden waves of wheat on the Cotton Farm in harvest season, she walked between the shadows of the trees. She didn't speak but beckoned them forward with nothing but a crook of her long elegant finger. Or perhaps just his master, but Sam followed on behind nevertheless. Mister Frodo walked almost in a trance in the Lady's wake, but Sam kept his mind on where they were being led. It wasn't that he didn't trust her, it was just that if he had learned anything from the old tales he'd been told as a child, it was to be wary of where you were being led if you didn't know your guide.

Still this wood was a safe place – almost felt like a little holiday, being here – and he would just have to trust that she wouldn't lead them astray. She hadn't as yet, but she had led them on a merry trail: up a hill, through a high green hedge and into an enclosed garden, where no trees grew, and it was open to the sky. An old fear from childhood gripped him then as he looked up into that open sky, the evening star shone down on them with as much white fire in its gaze as it had ever had in his dreams. He swore he could hear that strange voice in his head again, the one that spoke in a language that was older than him, older in fact than all hobbits, older than the Ancestors themselves.

This fear gripped him so tightly that he didn't even notice when Mister Frodo and the Lady had left him behind. And not until they were away down the stairs did he break free of it. But by that time, they were almost out of his sight and it was only by practically throwing himself down that long flight of stairs that he even came close to catching up with them. He very nearly tripped into that green hollow the Lady had led his master into, and it was only by sheer force of will that he stopped his feet before they could tumble him into the stream.

Mister Frodo and the Lady didn't even seem to notice his presence, too taken by the strange basin she'd filled with water from the stream.

'Here is the Mirror of Galadriel,' said the Lady. 'I have brought you here so that you may look in to it, if you will.' Everything was very still, thick and cloying, just like it always was when there was magic in the air.

'What shall we look for, and what shall we see?' Asked Mister Frodo, filled with as much awe as Sam had been the first time he'd seen real magic.

'Many things I can command the Mirror to reveal,' she answered, 'and to some I can show what they desire to see. But the Mirror will also show things unbidden, and those are often stranger and more profitable than things that we wish to behold. You may yet see many things Frodo Baggins… things that were, things that are, and things that yet may be. Do you still wish to look?'

Frodo did not, or could not, answer.

'And you?' she said, turning to Sam. 'For this is what your people would call magic or,' she scrounged her brows together, 'the rustic arts. A strange thing to call such a power, or so it seems to my mind.' Sam bit his lip and shuffled his feet in the damp grass beneath his toes.

'Aye, so it might seem so to one who is strange to our lands and our ways your Ladyship. But that's just what it is to the likes of me and my kind, only folk who are of the rustic sort can do this sort of thing. You know, have the gift of it, or rather want to learn of it; didn't think it was the sort of thing high folk turned their minds to.'

'Do many of your kind have this gift, young hobbit?' She seemed quite startled at the revelation of rustic folk having magic, or maybe it was just hobbits in general. They weren't particularly a magic looking folk after all. Yet, even then, her surprise seemed a little too great to be believable to Sam's eye – after all she seemed quite well versed in the rustic arts herself, if her Mirror was anything to judge by; so surely it couldn't be that unfathomable that there were others in the world with such power. Maybe it was an Elf thing, maybe magic was treated differently with their kind. But whatever the reason Sam had better give an answer to her question, because she was still looking at him with that penetrating gaze of hers.

'A few, your Ladyship.'

'And yourself?'

Sam shook his head, 'no, your Ladyship. I've never had the talent for it, I'm just a plain old gardener, not like our Marigold.'

Shit, shit, he shouldn't have said that…Marigold didn't have Magic like this, not living magic, she was a Ganyman. Her magic was that of the dead not the living…and there was good reason you didn't talk about that out loud. Not least was, well…Proudfoot and his laws.

Galadriel looked at the small gardener then like he was something quite strange indeed, and like she would have liked nothing more than to interrogate him on every aspect of hobbit life…or at least, Hobbit Magic. But she was brought back to the present again by Mister Frodo stepping up to the Mirror and reaching for it.

'Do not touch the water!' Sam's master yanked his hand away like he'd been burned and seemed – still in his trance like state – not to want to make another move towards the object of his fascination. Galadriel took note of this as well, because when she spoke next her voice was of a far kinder note.

'Do you now wish to look Frodo?'

Mister Frodo looked up at the great Elven Lady, his blue eyes still holding that same glazed expression that many of the elves seemed to sport around here.

'Do you advise me to look?' he asked then, an almost dreamy quality to his voice.

'No,' the Lady replied in the same tone. 'I do not counsel you one way or the other. I am not a counsellor. Seeing is both good and perilous. Yet I think, Frodo, that you have courage and wisdom enough for the venture, or I would not have brought you here.'

His master stepped up to the basin, this time keeping his hands firmly planted on either side of the water. For a long while he simply stood there, that same blank expression over his fine features, staring into the water. What the gentlehobbit saw Sam could only guess at. As for himself and the Lady, time seemed to pass slower than before. Galadriel made no more attempts to quiz Sam about his people or their ways, which Sam was not quite sure how he felt about. On the one hand he had never particularly enjoyed talking about the rustic arts with those that didn't quite understand them. Mainly because most of those questions had come from Master Pippin, who while being a fine lad in all regards, and clearly meaning well, was also a Took; which meant you were never quite sure whether he was really interested or just making fun of you. Sometimes it seemed even he wasn't really sure.

On the other hand, it had been so long since he'd talked to anyone about that part of hobbit culture, – even his sister who'd taken her Gany-vows as soon as she'd turned thirty-three (though Blarney help them if anyone ever found out) – that he was beginning to feel quite isolated in his beliefs. It wasn't that others didn't believe or in fact practice the rustic arts – the Cottons were some of the most powerful magicians ever to be born in the Shire – but ever since Proudfoot had raised that ban against speaking of such 'barbaric' practices in public places, conversations hadn't exactly been easy to start.

It hardly mattered no more anyway when Mister Frodo began to cry in terror, Sam tried to reach for his master but was stopped when the Lady Galadriel snagged his wrist and held him back like he was some form of misbehaving young'un. Sam struggled under her grip and cried out to his master.

'Mister Frodo! Mister Frodo!'

That dratted Ring that hung around his master's neck slipped out of the gentlehobbit's shirt and began dragging him down, closer to the water. Once again, the lady cried out for his master not to touch the water and once again his master seemed to hear her. He jerked his head back and half stumbled, half fell, away from the basin. The Lady released Sam and he was able to catch his master in his arms before he hit the ground. Mister Frodo shook all over, but his eyes never left the visage of the Lady, still as tall and graceful as ever, looking down on them with blank serenity.

'I know what it was that you saw,' she said; 'for that is also in my mind. Do not be afraid. I say to you, Frodo, that even as I speak to you, I perceive the Dark Lord and know his mind. And he gropes ever to see me and my thought. Yet we cannot let him in, Frodo, not even if we wished it so.'

She lifted up her white arms and spread out her hands towards the East like a white tree, with its leaves all stripped away for winter. The Star with the light from Sam's dreams shone clear above, but Sam kept his eyes focused on the Lady and did not look at it. But the thing was so bright, and so loud in his head that the Lady was like a shadow on the wall next to it. Well, except for the ring on her finger of course. It glittered like a fire, like the first and only fire that had ever burned in the world. And Sam had to shade his eyes even from her. His master on the other hand could not tear his eye away from the Blarney cursed thing and the Lady smiled at that. Blarney well smiled.

'Yes,' she said a twinkle of mischief in her voice. 'This is Nenya, the Ring of Adamant, and I am its keeper. He suspects, but he does not know – not yet. Do you not see now wherefore your coming is to us as the footstep of Doom? For if you fail, then we are laid bare to the Enemy. Yet if you succeed, then our power is diminished, and Lothlorien will fade, and the tides of time will sweep it away. We must depart into the West or dwindle to a rustic folk of dell and cave, slowly to forget and to be forgotten.'

That was a bit of a cheek to the likes of real rustic folk, Sam thought exhaustion bubbling close to the surface of his rage. But no one took his thoughts much mind. Mister Frodo pushed him aside as he stood up, his voice still the toneless sound it had been throughout all of this midnight madness.

'And what do you wish?'

'That what should be shall be,' she answered, an oddly intense note to her beautiful voice. 'Yet I could wish, were it of any avail, that the One Ring had never been wrought, or had remained for ever lost.'

Around the three the air began to feel hot and itchy on the two hobbits' skin, almost suffocating in its intensity. Frodo raised his hand, palm flat and up turned, where the Ring lay waiting for someone to grab it and take it for their own. The air grew cooler again, and the Lady in front of them grew still, and Frodo and Sam could begin to breathe at last. That was until the Blarney cursed Lady began to speak.

'And now at last it comes. You will give me the Ring freely! In place of the Dark Lord you will set up a Queen. And I shall not be dark, but beautiful and terrible as the Morning and the Night! Fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountain! Dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning! Stronger than the foundations of the earth; all shall love me and despair!'

The light from the young hobbit's darkest nightmares grew and surrounded Galadriel as if she and it where of one being. She stood before Sam and his master seeming now tall beyond measurement, and beautiful like a star up on high. A terrible thing, like the elves of old must have seemed to the Ancestors. As if yanked out of a dream Frodo closed his hand around the ring and shoved it back into his shirt. The terrible light around the Elven-Lady began to fade then and she blinked as if startled by this occurrence. Any illusion that Frodo might have been under while being led to this place was dropped instantly. He turned and ran out of the garden and all the way up the stairs that had led to it, before Galadriel could say another word; leaving her and his gardener staring after him in confusion.

'Well' said the mighty lady of Lothlorien, 'that did not go as I expected, but I do appear to have passed the test, haven't I?' Sam did not know how to answer that, so kept his silence. 'I shall diminish, return west across the sea to the land I was born in and remain Galadriel.' She sounded disappointed by that somehow. 'I don't suppose you wish now to look into the mirror of Galadriel, do you?'

He should say no to that. He should back away and run after Mister Frodo. The poor dear hadn't been getting near enough to eat lately, no thanks to that greedy Took and Brandybuck scoffing down the best of the sausages. Not to mention the torment of the ring. And yet…and yet something called to him, something old and from a dream he hadn't had in years. Not since his father's death, after that he had real things in his life to have nightmares about.

He hadn't realised his feet were moving towards the basin, not that it mattered – he couldn't have stopped them even if he'd known. Now he was standing at it, his hands gripping the sides of the Blarney Cursed thing so hard that his knuckles had turned white. White as the snow on that blasted mountain with the name he couldn't pronounce. But now that he was looking, down, down into the water none of that mattered. Because now he could see, he could see it all.

The Shire, he could see the Shire.

And there was Rosie Cotton, and she was pregnant. She was pregnant with his baby; he knew it without having to ask. This had to be the future the Elf Lady had been talking about, because him and Rosie had never…they'd never done what you were supposed to, to make a baby.

And then the picture of Rosie was gone, and in its place, Sam saw sand. A whole land made up of Sand. Sand mountains, sand hills, even sand cities. And in this land of Sand something was wrong, something – the way the people he saw moved, it weren't how people were supposed to move. It was all wrong, stiff and forced, like they were rotten right from the inside out. He saw people sitting up from their grave sides, mass graves all wriggling with bodies that had forgotten they were supposed to be dead. It made him feel ill and sick, and he wanted to look away he really did but something, something kept him pinned there. Kept him watching, and from that moment to the day he died, he never knew what it was.

And that's when he saw him.

At first, he thought it was one of the races of men, in fact for one very strange second Sam even thought it was young Calgacus. But as the person walked closer, he saw that it was nothing of that sort. It was a wizard; he'd have bet his feet on it. And yet, looking at him, walking in that dark, sunless land, with rags wrapped around his arms there was something in his step, in the way his legs moved that was very elf like. Lost, and not quite there anymore. He was laughing wild and manic and there was a woman, a woman in front of him with her arms out stretched as if…as if shielding Sam with her body. She was small for one of the races of men, and her hair was dyed blue.

And he knew her name, even though he couldn't hear what they were saying. He tried to cry it out, to cry out for Mab who would never see her grandchild grow. But she turned then, and she screamed and right there he was certain his ears bled from the sound. Because as he looked on her face, it changed and suddenly it weren't a face of a woman no more, but a young hobbit lass with curls of bright red hair.

The one they found in the river, killed by old Halffoot.

She was screaming, but she weren't being killed by Halffoot at all. The thing crouching over her, ripping into her with its own teeth were…Proudfoot.

Proudfoot with a blood-soaked chin.

Proudfoot with a look of a creature unnatural and unbelonging in his eyes.

Proudfoot with the voice of an elf on his lips.

In the old tales, the ones his Da would tell him and Marigold on those rare nights when Mam was fast enough asleep not to be minded, there was only one creature so foul as to sink their teeth into the likes of their own kind. And they called them the Mewlips, simply because to call them by a scream would have brought them forth from the darkness. In the stories they always looked like hobbits, but that was only because it was only hobbits that remembered to keep telling their stories. They weren't really hobbits, or men, or dwarves or even those high elves – they were bodies, bodies that had been brought back wrong. With a different creature steering the reins.

The spirit – every time they made a deal with a Ganyman gone bad – always thought they were getting a new chance at living again. They'd run to find their spouse, or their children and parents, to hug them, to tell them all the things they'd never gotten to say the first time. But then the hunger would start, the hunger for flesh that was never supposed to be eaten, and…well, Mewlip stories never had happy endings.

Da had told the stories of the Mewlips, but Sam didn't think even he believed them. After all, Ganymen understood death, why would any of them treat it like that. But then, Samwise supposed that was a bit of a hobbit presumption that a Ganyman had to be involved at all.

Suddenly Sam's feet gave way under him with a scream, and he found himself falling flat on his back. His heart was beating so fast that he couldn't even hear what the Lady was trying to say to him. But his sister Daisy had raised him with manners, and he knew it was rude not to give an answer – even if he didn't understand the question.

'Sorry, your Ladyship – I think I've had enough rustic magic for tonight.'

Boom, boom, in his ear. But she didn't seem to mind that he couldn't hear her proper like, because she smiled at him as if they shared a secret only they two would ever know. Though what that could be Sam had no idea, but better not to ask where fine folks were concerned really.

He had to get away from here, while he could still breath

'I should go and see to Mister Frodo, now. He got quite a scare there and he hasn't been sleeping as well as he should anyway.' Galadriel nodded absent-mindedly, already turning away from him.

'Yes, that is how it should be, go see to your master, I shall stay here and ponder on what has occurred this night.'

Understanding when he'd been dismissed Sam made a quick retreat up the stairs, hoping he hadn't fallen too far behind.

Behind him Galadriel stared into her mirror and frowned.

* * *

**Doric Translation**

***'I'm not disturbing you, am I?'**

****'No, if anything I think it'll prompt me to sit down.'**

*****'Then none shall leave my mouth, Gondor. But I'll open my ears if you've a care to tell me your worries.'**

******'None so fair to hear your secrets as the ear of the enemy.'**

*******'Yes, it would take a greater spirit than I to be able to block it out entirely. I hear it sometimes, whispering to me…speaking of a better life I could make with it, a land where my wife and child don't have to live and breathe the same air as the dead. It's how I know it's lying, son of Denethor.'**


	35. Chapter 35 : A Child Born

Middle-earth, Rivendell: T.A. 3019

Arwen was deep in a grief-soaked dream when the screaming began. She jerked from her bed and lurched into the hallway along with several other members of her father's household.

'What is it,' cried one of her father's cooks, covering her ears in pain. 'Has the dark lord descended from his tower to consume us all? Have they found the hidden valley?'

'Don't be ridiculous,' said a deeper, far more controlled voice. Erestor, strode into the light of the moon filleting through the windows of the hallway.

'It is the Dunlander girl, her child must be coming. Go, heat a basin of hot water and find us some towels, there will be a child born this night.'

And so, they did, the servants dispersed until only Arwen and Erestor stood in the hallway leading to her chamber.

'Where is she?' spoke the Evenstar. 'For she does not seem so near as to be in her room, and I should have heard if she had been moved.'

Her father's favourite councillor bowed and motioned for her to follow him.

'She collapsed in the dining hall, not so soon after you retired for the night, my lady. She had to be moved to a chamber closer to the ground, since she was much too heavy for us to lift all the way up to the room beside yours.'

Arwen nodded, but made no more move to say anything. Time was of the essence, and they could not waste the air with useless words now.

The girl was already half gone by the time they actually did enter the room, the baby almost crowning and the screams, oh the screams were unbearable. They would have made a mortal's ear bleed, but for the elves, who had grown so finally attuned to the gentle noises of their world, it very nearly broke them. It forced them to their knees and cowed them with the loud, sharp noise of something that was never meant to be.

And that was when the daughter of Elrond Half-elven realised that it was not the mother's screams at all that cowed her and Erestor so, it was the child's. Very nearly still in its mother's womb, it wailed and shook the walls with the terrible sound.

She wanted to run, but she couldn't move, no all Arwen could do was stay there as slowly the child squirmed its way out of its mother's birth-canal and took its first horrible breath. Most children couldn't do that, they needed the mother to push, the mid-wife to help…someone outside themselves to lend them aid in taking their first breath…this child did not.

It wriggled free onto its mother's bedding, and just lay there as all infants would, squealing in agony. It twitched, and it writhed as no mortal should, for you see there was no way for this child to truly be a mortal at all, for it only half lived. One half of its body was new-born and as all babies should be…but the other half, that half was dead to the world, it rotted, and it stunk, and wriggled with the flesh of newly-born maggots.

Meanwhile

Calgacus opened his eyes and sat bolt upright, he'd had that dream again. The same dream he'd had almost every night after they'd escaped the forest. That terrible dream, the one where his mother's trees fell, and the dead were set loose on Middle-earth.

His wife had told him it was just a dream, and to please stop waking her up at night to discuss it, but he didn't know. It had seemed so vivid this night, how could it not be real?

At least he didn't wake up screaming this time, it was difficult enough to explain that when it was only the hobbits that had heard him. Around him he could hear the soft low voices of the fellowship, they'd left the tree-city of Lothlorien not two days past, and the weight of the journey was already beginning to weigh on their shoulders.

The voices were growing louder, almost as if…as if they were rising in argument.

'Will you keep your voice down, the others do not need to be awoken by your ranting and raving.'

'My ranting...my raving? It was not I that was doing that last night, or in Lothlorien when you 'accidently' stumbled into my bed chamber.'

'Be silent, I was grieving, I was lost, and you had no right to force the situation.'

'Force the situation? I was asleep you pointy eared elf princeling, and you kissed me.'

'Please, please let us put it behind us, I am sorry that…that I disgust you so, but this journey is perilous enough without our hatred for one another growing out of control.'

'So, you do still hate me. Are you so bitter towards my kin for stealing a bride from you that you would continue to loath me merely for my race?'

'And do you not do the same to me? I am an elf, and there for as good as an orc in your eyes, or say it is not so?'

'No…No…it is not so…not so now, aye at the beginning I would have gladly run you through with my axe. But the lady has changed my eyes for the better, has she not done yours? Or was my hair so a flame with the light of the Elven born moon that you could not but resist me. Hair of fire so like hers, so like the first elf to love my kind.'

'You know nothing of what you speak master Gimli, and you never shall, now please leave me alone. I have need to be by myself tonight.'

'Did you love her, so? Or is it something else, something that you still cannot face.'

'I said… be quiet!'

There was the harsh sound of something hitting flesh, and suddenly it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the world and not even the hobbits tucked up safely beside the Dunlander, could sleep anymore.

'Blarney, they're at it again, Mister Frodo.'

Hissed a hoarse voice a few sleeping forms down.

Another voice giggled at that.

'I know, why don't they just f…'

'Pippin!'

'Oh, come on Merry, you know what I mean, they've done this every night since we left Lothlorien.'

'And more than a few in it,' came the first voice again.

'I don't remember that?' Frodo, darn it, Frodo was awake…that could not end well for anyone.

'Oh, Aye sir, that they did, since the first night the Lady spoke to us.'

'How did you see this?'

'Wasn't hard, they walked past our bedrolls every night having the same argument.'

'Where was I then?'

'In a dream sir, in a dream.'

Somewhere outside Rivendell

It was a dream, it was all a dream, that's why the girl told herself. None of it could be real, none of it…she…she was human, she had never been an elf, maybe that was the dream. No, no, she could remember her lives before, her names, she had been those elves, was still those elves fused as if as one in a single body. But she was still human, that at least had to be real.

So maybe it was everything else that was the dream…. maybe in her arms was nothing more than the whisper in the mind. A nightmare that at any second, she'd wake up from and be all the better, no, she was never so lucky. She lacked the imagination to dream up something…. something like this.

The elves had been afraid, no more than that, they'd been terrified of the thing that had come out of the girl. And right they should be, for even now the thing squirmed at her breast, and wriggled around in her arms like it was violently sick in its own skin.

She couldn't look down at it, not yet anyway…maybe in time, some time, she'd be able to look down at…at that thing and feel only love. Like her mother did for…for them…in the other life…the life when they were not a girl but elves…the life that…they had tried to make themselves forget. They had tried to play the role, be the wife, for Calgacus, for his child…but Calgacus was gone now, away on a journey without her and she was alone with the babe in her arms…hiding where the elves would never look.

Where her family would never look.

Amon Hen, not but a week later

The world moved too fast for Calgacus to catch his breath, they'd already lost Gandalf to the dark depths of Moria and now the Ringbearer had vanished into the forest surrounding their campsite. All the terrible things that could happen to someone as small as Frodo flashed through the boy's mind, and he tried to keep the nausea off his face.

So many terrible things, not just the dead here, but the living, the dark and terrible creatures that crawled out of the two towers. He'd never really seen an orc before, back in the heart of his mother's trees, he'd never imagine anything could be as horrible as the dead…and nothing could, but the orcs came the closest.

What if…what if one of them found Frodo before the Fellowship could? What terrible things could an orc do to a hobbit in the time it took the others to reach them? No…no…the more he thought like that the weaker he felt…imagining such terrible things would do nothing to help the hobbit now. No, what would help was if Calgacus found him, and he couldn't do that if he was retching on the ground.

Then from the North he heard the sound, it was a great bellow like a horn blown…the horn of Gondor.

'Boromir!'

Hefting his shield onto his back, Calgacus took off at a sprint, bounding over the harsh jutted stone of the wreckages of Gondor long past. He was moving so quick now he could hear the sharp slap of the wind against his face, it slammed against him, made his breath short and ragged and yet he couldn't stop…for the horn of Gondor still bellowed in the distance. Which could mean one thing and one thing only.

Boromir had found Frodo.

And that was a terrifying thought all by itself.

Rivendell, A week earlier

She did not have a horse, she did not have a cart, or some form of carrying her forward that wasn't just her own legs – legs that were very quickly losing momentum against the horse-back riders that pursued her.

No, that pursued them. The Elves had been afraid of the child that had come out of the girl…truly afraid…more afraid of her than they ever were of the orcs that they hunted daily. For the child was of two worlds…the living and the dead. The elves did not know how to handle it, did not know what to do when the child wailed that unnatural shriek of hers, in yearning not for her mother's milk…but for her blood.

They shunned the child, tried not to look at her, but maybe that would have been all they did if it had not been for the mother herself. For after the birth she seemed changed. Not broken, or tired, as one might expect in the aftermath of any birth…but as if she was no longer there, as one person anymore.

She talked and bickered with herself constantly, as if there was someone in there with her, but when her nursemaids opened the door, they found the girl sitting all by herself.

'The child has driven her mad,' concluded the wise Elves of Elrond's council. 'The only solution is to take it away from her.' Elrond said nothing to this, a slow clawing guilt gripping him when he thought of the girl, or the child at all.

Not because of the boy on the quest, no, it was something deeper…something darker than that. He was trapped within his own duty to the members of his household, who were not only terrified by the child…but very possibly in danger…for a dark gloom had hung over the house of Elrond since the child's birth that was of nothing natural to this world – and his own conscience swayed by history best left forgotten. For what would he have done if Maglor or Maedhros would have looked at him and his brother Elros, like they were creatures barely worth the air that they breathed?

There was something wrong with the child, something deeply wrong but…a child was still a child.

He forbids them to kill it, but that was all he did for he'd witness the deterioration of the mother and knew that the child could not be permitted to continue to suckle at her breast. It must be taken away, and it must be taken now.

And so, what if his voice raised a tad too loud for the secret meeting, his advisers – save Erestor, who remained too close a confident of the Evenstar to be trusted – had forced him into it. It was hardly his fault if the only empty meeting room, his staff hadn't filled with broken furniture was just down the hall from the child's nursery.

How was he to know the mother would be there? How was he to know she'd take offense at his advisers plans to steal her child? How was he to know what she'd do to try and stop it.

Honestly sometimes his advisers could be the most paranoid of people.

***  
Amon Hen

They were too late; they were always too late. The hobbits were gone, either carried off by…by those foul creatures or wandered off of their own volition. And Boromir, Boromir was dead…Boromir was gone, just like so many before him.

Aragorn had ordered them to lay his body out in one of the long boats they had used to get up here, his small round shield laid out over him as if it could protect him from all the terrible things that would come for him in the afterlife. He didn't know the rituals of death of the Men of Gondor – the Gondor soldiers who had been trapped in his mother's forest rarely spoke of their home-land, except maybe to teach a few of the locals the Common tongue – so Calgacus didn't know if this was really what Boromir would have wanted, but he doubted it. Truth be told Boromir would have preferred to be alive, to have his own skin remain his till the end of time. He would never have the former ever again, but perhaps if Calgacus acted quickly he could stop the later, he could do this one last thing for a man he had never been brave enough to call friend.

The others had started to sing, a low and mournful song of Boromir's life – but Calgacus did not know the words, and he hardly cared to learn them now. No, now there was greater work to be done for the dead. He crouched down and scrabbled in one of the packs that the hobbits had left behind.

A tinder box, Master Samwise had carried many of them, perfect, just what he needed.

'Calgacus, what are you doing?'

Legolas lent over him, a faint frown crossing his ethereal face.

'He has tae burn; the body has tae burn.'

'No,' said Aragorn his hand shooting out and latching onto the Dunlander's wrist, before he could spark the ever so needed fire over Boromir's body.

'It is not the way it is done in Gondor, Aon-adharcach; we must respect Boromir's wishes.'

'If Boromir's wishes had been respected, he wouldna be dead.'

Aragorn stepped back from the angry youth; his own face gone decidedly blank.

'He wished tae go home, his wished tae go doon the gap o' the Strawheads. But ye thought better of that oh King o' Men, and now lays your due…Boromir is dead, aye, we must except that. For there is nae man or elf, or dwarf yet living who could cure him o that, nor should…but I'll nae let this great man's body be a vessel for thems that dinna ken to stay dead. Better it burns than tae let it rot. '

No one stopped him this time, aye, no one stopped him at all.

It was a terrifying sight to behold, what the elves who pursued the mother and babe that dark and cold night saw. They'd known it would be of course, the child was a horrifying sight all by herself, yet somehow not in their wildest dreams could any of them have imagined this.

When they'd first come across her, that strange girl from savage Dunland, crouched heaving over her still unnaturally screaming child, they had believed that they had caught her that night – ah what fools we all are in hindsight.

'My Lady, please we have out run you this night…we will out run you tomorrow night…and every night that you try to elude us…please my lady, we will not hurt the child.'

'Then what will you do, Glorfindel of Rivendell?'

The voice sounded wrong, as if it did not fit the slight body of the girl it was coming from. It sounded harsh and deeper than it should have. As if…as if some other soul was trying to break through…trying to show themselves for what they really were. But of course, that was absurd.

'We will take her somewhere safe, a village perhaps, but you must know this cannot continue. Look at you my lady, you were already weak from the birth…but now you can barely stand. She cannot be allowed to consume your blood anymore…you will die…and then who will protect her after that?'

'Oh, my dear Glorfindel…you truly sound sincere in your concern for our daughter's safety…we never knew they gave such wonderful acting classes in the halls of Mandos. But then we never really got a round much when we were there.'

The girl's head flicked back over her shoulder and she laughed…laughed in a way that no mortal ever should. That no immortal ever should…she laughed like she was being split in two. Glorfindel fought against the deep undeniable terror that had forced him and his soldiers to their knees.

Something was happening…something terrible and he didn't think it was the child this time. Something was breaking before him, the mother's back bent over and…and ripped in twian. Blood, bone all pulled apart like they were never meant to be in the first place.

And when that cold chill finally settled on the forces of Elrond's household at last, it was not a girl that stood before them…in fact it was not a single person at all, but two.

Two elves looked down on the soldiers kneeled before them and smiled, smiled as if this had been their game all along.

'Good Evening, Gentlemen,' said the twin spectres of elves long past. 'You can call us the Ambarussa, now…' they said as they bent and scooped up the still screaming infant.

'We believe you were in the middle of trying to murder our daughter. Or were we mistaken?'

All were silent, for none could speak under their gaze.

'Ah, I see…well we certainly can't allow that, now can we?'


	36. Chapter 36 : In the Land of Rohan

Middle-Earth, The Plains of Rohan: T.A. 3019, February 30th 

A week, a whole week of pursuit with little time for rest or nourishment. Calgacus had always thought himself healthy, but now running in the company of such creatures like the Dunedin and the Elf, well he felt quite out-stripped.

He could barely feel his feet anymore, and he dreaded what might become of the hobbits if he were to fall in their pursuit. He would not be the one to slow down his fellow hunters, he would not be the one to fall behind even Gimli.

Just one more hill, he lied to himself, just one more hill and then you'll see the hobbits again. It wasn't an unbelievable lie, after all Aragorn had stopped at the top of the next hill. Yet as the son of the Leomhann neared the current leader of the fellowship, he could begin to make out just what had made the other man stop…and it most certainly was not hobbits.

Calgacus did not have to have seen the Riders of Rohan before to recognize them. His people's dislike of the wretched creatures had been etched into his bones. He imagined his stomach making a nasty flipping motion, as down below them the riders of Rohan thundered past. Aragorn did not seem to have the same trepidation though, for he yelled to their leader as loudly as he could.

'What news from the North, Riders of Rohan?'

Calgacus was quite frozen, as he watched the riders turn their mounts as one, and gallop to meet the approaching hunters.

Calgacus kept a firm grip on his shield as around the four companions, the Rohirrim circled. They finally stopped, though whether out of a realisation that their intimidation tactics had failed or because their horses had grown tired, Calgacus could never be sure. He expected the latter, because Rohanians were all far too inbred to realise anything of import.

One of them rode forward then, a tall man made taller by the height of his steed; he did not dismount to greet or interrogate them but remained sitting in his horse's saddle, as the spear he held extended until it touched Aragon's breast, right over his heart.

Aragorn did not flinch but met the coward's eyes with courage that should have humbled the man, but merely made him laugh. The long horsetail fastened to his helm sweeping back in what might have been a majestic manner in a race with more honour.

'What is the business does a man, an Elf, a Dwarf and …' the rider's lip curled upon proper sight of Calgacus, who suddenly wished he carried some other weapon with his shield. 'And a savage have in the Ridermark?'

Gimli's answer was not altogether wanted. 'Give me your name horse-master, and I shall give you mine.'

The named Horse-master un-mounted and handed his spear to one of his subordinates, before unsheaving his sword and advancing menacingly on the dwarf.

'I would cut off your head dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground.'

Legolas' bow was cocked faster than either dwarf or man could blink, and he growled – well as much as any elf could growl. 'You would be dead before your stroke fell.' Aragorn lowered the Elven prince's arrow with his own hand, and spoke soothing words in that unnerving tongue of the Elves. He then turned and spoke in a voice that he no doubt thought was just dramatic enough for his purpose.

'I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, and am called Elessar, the Elfstone, Dunedin, the heir of Isildur, Erendil's son of Gondor. Here is the sword that was broken and is forged again! Will you aid me or thwart me? Choose swiftly!'

Calgacus couldn't help it, he unconsciously moved himself and his shield closer to Legolas and Gimli. Because Aragorn had clearly lost any sign of sanity he had once held. The term in-bred got tossed around a lot about other men, like the Rohan or the Dunedin, back home - but Aragorn had always seemed so sane and together, so Calgacus had thought that nothing but talk. But what sane man would give his true lineage away to a man who had yet to identify himself as anything but an enemy?

'This is an honour done to my people then,' said the Rohan man. 'But it still doesn't answer my question; why are you, here Aragorn son of Arathorn? And with such strange and barbaric company? Tell me do you know what the Dunlanders have done to us? Are you unaware of the crimes they have committed against my people? The crimes they continue to commit; tell me why I should trust a man who thinks such creatures are safe traveling companions?'

'I am aware of what they are guilty of.' Said Aragorn throwing a rather cool look at Calgacus. 'And I make no excuses for them, but our purpose is not to aid such a vile and despicable people; but to track a party of Uruk-hai heading North. They carry two of our friends with them.'

'More Dunlanders? Then they've done you a favour,' Calgacus' free hand curled into a fist and it was only the sharp pain of the Elf gripping his shoulder, that kept him from swinging at the in-bred hick.

'They were Hobbits of the Shire. Small, they'd be only children to your eyes.'

The man removed his helm then, his straw like hair making a swishing movement as he did so.

'I know of the creatures you speak of, for we have a fair few in the lands of Rohan. But I'm afraid I cannot help you further than that. We slaughtered a party of Uruk-hai in the night, we saw no creatures of child or Holbytla stature, if your friends were still living then… they shan't be anymore.'

'No…' said Gimli, his head hung low in sorrow, but the straw-head did not seem to notice.

'I am Eomer son of Eomund; and the laws of this land state that any stranger must be taken to the king, or in the case of your Dunland companion, killed on sight.'

'I am aware of the laws of this land Eomer son of Eomund, for I rode with your father and your uncle before you were even conceived. For I am a descendent of the men of Numenor, whose lives are greater and longer than those of lesser men such as you and your kin.'

Behind Aragorn's back, Calgacus and Legolas shared a look of combined frustration.

'I am aware of that Aragorn son of Arathorn, and in this dark time our people would be greatly aided by one such as you.'

It was sarcasm, it had to be sarcasm. Though if it was, Aragorn didn't seem to notice.

'I would be overjoyed to lend your uncle my sword, but I'm afraid I cannot help you until we have completed our quest and either found our companions alive and whole, or seen their remains properly buried.'

'Well then, I will lend you a horse if it might speed your search; but I warn you this Aragorn son of Arathorn…' the straw head pointed his sword at Calgacus.

'If I ever see this creature again, I will have him slaughtered like the filth he is.'

'I would expect nothing less of the son of Eomund.' Said Aragorn as he took the bridle of the first of the two rider-less horses. The straw head nodded as he climbed into his own steed's saddle.

'May they carry you to better fates than their last masters…' he sneered down at them, or maybe just at Calgacus. The three other hunters climbed on to the horses, but Aragorn made a sharp stopping movement before Calgacus could do the same.

The straw heads laughed as they turned their mounts as one and galloped away, leaving the four hunters to stand awkwardly in their retreating dust. Aragorn made a jerking movement with his arm and heaved Calgacus onto the horse behind him.

'I am sorry, but it was the only way to get him to trust me.'

Calgacus laughed at that.

'Maybe sae, and ah might forgive aat in time, bit ah'm sure he fair have liked ye better, if ye'd nae used the term 'lesser men'.'*

'But it's true?'

'Ah'm just pointing out, aat it might nae be just ma lineage aat fool takes issue wi now. An despicable? Really? Ah've travelled wi ye for mair than a year, Aragorn son of Arathorn, an ye can't do me the courtesy o thinking up an entertaining lie aboot ma people?'**

'That's what troubles you?'

'Ack, it doesn't help.'

Aragorn snorted, and his lips turned up at the corners in what would have passed for a smile had it been somebody else.

'I will think of better insults by the time our paths cross with him again.'

'It's all ah ask…' and then the boy frowned. 'Aragorn…fit did he mean the crimes ma people continue to commit against his? We've nae had so much as a scuffle in at least seventeen years. We canna, with my Mither's forests parting us so.'

Aragorn's scowl was deeper than his smile.

'I do not know Aon-adharcach, but it cannot be anything good.'

Dunland was gone, that is what the people of the villages closest to that terrible land told themselves anyway. Why would they think anything different? There had been no raids on their livestock, or wives, in over seventeen years…longer if you counted the time before the forest had sprung up.

Such a strange forest it was, the trees sharp, and oddly angler for how tall they grew. Still they'd gotten rid of the Dunlanders, and that was reason enough for the villagers to begin to pray to them. It was no great leap, they had prayed to Gondor's Valar and other older gods all their lives, and anyone who knew the gods at all, could tell you that the trees and plants of the earth were closest to them.

The Gods had heard their people…for the Rohan surely were the Gods' people even more so than the high minded Gondorians…and they had sent their saviours to trap the vicious brutes behind their hollowed bark.

So, aye, they worshiped, and they prayed, and they left sweet breads and treacle sweets as offerings for the free spirts of the forest. For what creature, God or Mortal did not love sweet breads and treacle sweets with their morning meal?

It was exactly that, in fact, that the two children were doing when they saw them. At first the creatures clawing their way out of the trees looked like men. Dirty men, but men all the same. The children were too young to remember the Dunlanders…not as their parents would…but when a strange man crawls his way out of a God blessed forest and begins to stumble towards you, you don't stand around wondering where he came from…you just run.

And run they did, all the way back to what should have been their village…but wasn't anymore.

For you see, the only dead to walk in morning light, are the hungry ones.

* * *

Just Outside of Fangorn Forest

Their horses carried them swiftly to the sight of the Uruk-hai massacre. The bodies were piled up high in a messy stack close to the forest. Smoke rose lazily from it, and the smell of burnt orc flesh was sickening, it was almost enough to fell Calgacus before his two feet were even on the ground again. If there were any remains of hobbit in that festering pile, they would not be finding them any time soon.

Gimli and Legolas clutched each other in their shared grief, and Aragorn slammed his foot into an Orc helmet and screamed as it shot across the remains of the encampment. Calgacus wasn't sure what to do, he was used to the feeling of grief but then he suspected the others were as well. People died all the time, people who shouldn't die, people who should have lived a long and happy life. People like Merry and Pippin, but people like that died all the time, and there was nothing you could do about it. Nothing but to move on, and try to live your own life, whatever was left of it.

The Hobbits had been older than him after all, Meriadoc past Counting Age and Pippin only just before it: good long lives, as far as his people were concerned. That was what he told himself now, yet that knowledge did nothing to ease the hollow in his chest that might once have been his heart.

'A hobbit lay here,' Calgacus' mind was drawn from his grief by the sound of the Ranger's voice.

'And another…they crawled, but their hands were bound.'

Calgacus followed the line of the ranger's sight as he picked up the hastily cut rope.

'Their bonds were cut…they fled. But they were followed…the tracks lead here, and over here, until they reach…Fangorn Forest.'

'What Madness drove them in there.' Breathed Gimli, his beard still streaked with newly fallen tears. Legolas and Calgacus shared a look of quite resignation, as the four hunters followed the hobbits' tracks into the ominous forest.

The light from the man was blinding, a white wizard Aragorn had said, some kin of Gandalf's but not half so wise. Saruman aye, he had heard that name before, the Wizard who tried to buy his people's loyalty with the promise of revenge and land that wasn't infested with the walking corpses of the dead. But then the trees had come up, and suddenly his people no longer mattered.

'What spell is this? What have you done to the hobbits?' Legolas and Aragorn seemed to speak as one.

Calgacus' shield, for once did nothing to block out that terrible light and he felt quite dazed and confused when the voice began to speak to them.

'Two hobbits passed here yesterday, and they met someone who they did not expect.'

Around the stranger the light began to fade and Calgacus could finally see enough to lower his shield. An old man in long white robes stood before them, his hair fallen about his shoulders in a comforting manner, and the son of the Leomhann was finally able to recognize the stranger.

'Gandalf!'

The wizard made an 'oof' sound when the man of Dunland dropped his shield and all but flung himself at the old wizard.

'Gandalf…' said Aragorn, just a second slower than the Clansman.

'We…we thought you were Saruman.'

'I am Saruman…' said the wizard as Calgacus, slightly embarrassed, released him. 'But rather Saruman as he should have been.' Gandalf opened his arms and embraced the others in turn and laughed at their tears of joy.

'Weep not my friends, for our time is always too short on this earth and I have been given a second chance…something many deserve but never receive, so if you must weep than weep for the hobbits whose trials, I fear have only just begun. Come, we have much to discuss as we make for the Gap of Rohan. Great Evil has taken hold in that kingdom.'

'Founded on don't you mean.' Grumbled Calgacus, thoughts of angry horsemen already taken root in his mind. If Gandalf had heard, he pretended he hadn't.

Gimli scowled.

'What of the hobbits, we cannot just leave them in this dank tree-infested…' Around them the trees began to groan, and Gimli paled considerably. 'Charming! Completely charming forest.'

'Merry and Pippin are perfectly safe master Dwarf, in fact they're a good deal safer than you are about to be.'

'This new Gandalf's just as grumpy as the old one.'

* * *

It would seem that the horses of the Rohirrim rarely grew tired or felt hunger, so their journey was quicker than it really should have been. They seemed to go from riding out of Fangorn to riding into Edoras in the amount of time it took for Calgacus to fall asleep in his saddle, and be jostled awake by Aragorn's elbow.

His dream had been a kind one for once; with the fates of Merry and Pippin confirmed, at least partially, by the wizard, his dreams were able to be joyous again…that was until he remembered where he was willingly riding into. Rohan, Edoras; the city of the people who had centuries ago invaded his people's land and either driven them out, forced them to assimilate or just flat out massacred them until only the Straw-heads were left.

These people had ruined his people's land, and they'd never suffered for it. Sure, he concluded, as they rode up the empty streets of Rohan's main fortress, they appeared to be suffering a bit now… but what was a couple of Orc raids next to the legions of the Dead his people had to fight off daily. Nothing, these people knew nothing of what it was to be truly afraid, after all a sword would stop an orc.

They – Gandalf and the four hunters - dismounted their steeds and climbed the steps to the hall of King Théoden. Gandalf gave Calgacus a hard look over his shoulder, as if he knew every unkind thought that had just passed through the Clanman's head.

'I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself, Calgacus son of Mab; just because you cannot see a people's suffering, does not make it any less than yours.'

Calgacus scowled and felt like snapping something rather ugly at the wizard's retreating back; but the guard was too close now, and whether he liked it or not the Wizard had a point. Oh, not about the suffering, Calgacus was sure he was wrong in that regard, but the keeping silent part…yes, there the old man might have it right. Calgacus' face, and general manner already rubbed these people the wrong way, he didn't need to go opening his gob and make an already potentially fatal meeting…deadlier.

In all honesty he was actually sort of surprised he hadn't been stopped at the fortress' gates, after all he was clearly an outsider and didn't belong. Of course, neither did the others, but Rohan had never been in open war with any of their people. He decided he didn't want to think about it anymore, so turned his full attention to the stone fortress of the King.

Before the Dead had come marching in, his homeland had only really had one fortress, Dunlich Castle; but next to this house of Kings, that ancient fortress of lore would pale in comparison. This was no ancient stronghold of a people long forgotten, the occupants of this fortress properly could still remember all the builders' names. It was quite a sight he had to admit, it didn't mean he considered the people who built it any less despicable or creatures of the dark disguised as men…but he could certainly appreciate fine craftsmanship, even if it was made by such a people. Gandalf gave the man a smirk that deserved the darkest scowl Calgacus could muster. But there was no time, for they were at the door now and the guard was demanding they hand over all their weapons before they could enter the hall. Which would include the wizard's staff…well, thought Calgacus resignedly, this should be fun to watch at least.

* * *

Inside the Court of the King

Éowyn's uncle was a greatly sick man; it seemed to her now that it had always been so, even though she still held the distant memory of the proud king he'd once been. But that seemed a great many years ago to her now, and she'd always been a woman who lived in the present, and the present was a dark day indeed.

Court had begun as usual for these times, with very few people in attendance, not even her cousin bothered to slouch from his bed-chamber so early in the morning. Sometimes it seemed like only herself and that creature Wormtongue took the matter seriously anymore, her brother certainly never had, but he was gone now. He had been gone for many months now. It was Wormtoughn's fault she knew, a great many things were Wormtoughn's fault. And as as she strode into the Throne room ready to take court with her uncle, and spied the thin leach of a man refilling her cousin's cup, with a look of twisted glee across his waxy face – she felt the bile of hatred rise in throat again.

Théodred had once been a noble warrior, a man any King would be proud to call son, but that was many moons ago and whatever man he was now, it was not one that was fit to be king.

Spying her lurking near the doorway her cousin tipped his goblet in her direction as a sort of clumsy salute. Red wine splashed out of the cup and onto the tile stones below, and Théodred roared with laughter as if it was the funniest thing in the world.

As gracefully as she could, with her cousin's drunken laughter still bouncing against the walls; Éowyn crossed the room and sat herself in the seat to her uncle's left. Théodred could be so very cruel when as deep in his cups as he was now. So Éowyn wished dearly that her first assumption had been correct, and that her cousin had been suffering too great a hangover to appear at early morning court. Yet, he wasn't, and she was a woman of the present not the might be, and there was work to be done.

Or rather there would have been, if the wide doors of the hall had not been thrown open at that very moment and, five strangers of the most peculiar garb, strolled in. Well, thought the niece of the king resignedly, at least it had not been another one of Théodred's misguided attempts to contribute, that had derailed the court for the day.

* * *

**Doric Translation:**

***'Maybe so, and I might forgive that in time, but I'm sure he would have liked you better had you not used the term 'lesser men'.'**

****'I'm just pointing out, that it might not be just my lineage that that fool takes issue with now. And despicable? Really, I've travelled with you for more than a year Aragorn son of Arathorn, and you can't do me the courtesy of thinking up at least an entertaining lie about my people?'**


	37. Chapter 37 : The Fool

Middle-Earth, Rohan, Edoras; T.A. 3019

The small, hunched man tumbled down the steps of Théoden's palace, landing on the ground between them with an audible thump.

'Your trickery and lies, would have had me crawling on the ground on all fours, like a dog.' Théoden's voice should have been roaring loud enough for the very Valar themselves to hear, but it wasn't. Instead it was low, deep and controlled, it was the voice of a king speaking to one who had betrayed him.

Gandalf smiled, as Aragorn leaped past him and grabbed the King's wrists before he could land the killing blow on the miserable wretch.

'No, my lord, let him go. Enough blood has been spilled on his behalf,' with Aragorn's coaxing words the king lowered his sword and Wormtongue ran. Gandalf did not care, nor needed, to look where he ran, he knew already. Saruman would have word of this soon, excellent, now they could begin to form an offensive in truth, and to heal old wounds that should have been laid to rest eons ago.

The white wizard glanced surreptitiously at the sullen boy standing at his side; he had not known what to make of the strange child from Dunland at first. His speech at the council had been moving and even now he seemed devoted to seeing the Fellowship's task through, yet Gandalf still felt wary. Not necessarily because of the boy himself, as the child seemed true and loyal enough, but because of Gandalf's complete lack of knowledge of Calgacus' people. In truth Gandalf had only truly known them as the enemies of Rohan, slightly deserved enemies no doubt, but enemies none the less.

With all the other members of the fellowship, Gandalf either knew them or knew _their people_, most for many generations in fact. The hobbits, Aragorn, Thranduil's son, Gloin's son, even Boromir had been from a people he had grown well acquainted with. Yet he knew next to nothing about this boy's people, and that unsettled him.

Were they, as the Rohan nobles had so often claimed, creatures of the dark? Somehow, he found it hard to believe, yet how could he say anything for sure if he had no evidence? He could not even say for sure whether they even _believed_ in the Valar, let alone deliberately turned their backs on them.

'Sae aat's the king o the Rohan?'*

The boy said in that strange rolling speech of his homeland, Gandalf nodded, waiting for the scowl he knew would follow.

'Odd, ah thocht he'd be mair menacing.'**

Gandalf huffed into his beard and tried to suppress the smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. The scowl was there yes, but perhaps not quite so menacing as it might once have been. Hope, it would seem, was not quite out of sight yet.

A great feast had been thrown for the Wizard and his companions. Truly it was a sight to behold: the mead hall gleamed with rich golds and reds, and the fine lords and ladies of Rohan sat side by side with the common folk. Many of whom were…smaller than you would imagine. Aragorn, who sat at the king's table to the right of the lady Éowyn, frowned as he gazed out into the crowd. It couldn't be, he had to be imagining it, yet…hadn't Eomer said something about…no, he must be imagining it. Yes, surely his worry for Merry and Pippin, not to mention Sam and Frodo must be clouding his sight and making him perceive things that just could not be there.

He glanced at the Lady sitting at his side, could she be seeing the same things he was...perhaps he should ask her.

'Lady Éowyn?'

She turned her head and smiled tiredly at him, but he was not able to finish his question for the music around them rose and overpowered his speech. And a figure stepped out from amongst the awaiting crowd, a very small figure, with large hairy feet. It was a hobbit, yes it was certainly that, but like none of the others Aragorn had ever seen before. A scowling fellow with a sloping forehead and a long stick, which in the flicker of the torchlight resembled more a spear than the walking staff it surely was. The strange hobbit opened his mouth and began to speak.

What madman is this that muzzles me and calls it a gift?

That cries for free speech while slashing the throat of it?

Are ye crooks or Mewlips maybe?

Whoops, wrong part of the timeline this be.

Never you fear my lords, my ladies, my kings in thrall.

Your fool isn't mad, he simply sees all.

For that is my place, here in this story

A touch base for readers, to ease their worry.

Aye tis true, all you readers I see

For that is the curse of omnipotence.

Now for this future I see clearer than thy

Ah what a sad fate in which we all die.

Good Men shall be king and then quickly die out

Leaving nought but the Mewlips to stuff their fat snouts.

Aye beware the Mewlip king that comes a calling.

For his price all good men shall simply find galling.

This is the fate I see for all thee

If you do not heed pleas of thy enemy.

For the tale of the Mewlip is no hobbit story.

Of that fact I am really quite sorry.

For that is the joke, you've just not got yet

All ye sons and daughters of a Northman's get.

Gods and Monsters did not die out with the first elven boat

We lived on, and well we dwelt under yer fire's smoke.

And know this I do, for my visage you have seen.

In a cave of the forgotten with a silver sheen

And when at last my lords and gents, you've laid yourself to rest.

Then the Blarney Son be the Fool tonight and give you all a jest.

The music played as the hobbit spoke, though he made no attempt to try and match it with his voice. It was as if he had forgotten he was supposed to be singing, and had instead composed a poem on the spot. A poem that Aragorn noted kept to no particular rule of poetry, either of Elven verse or the less refined poets of men. Other than their rhyming nature, the beats of the words were random. It was as if the message of the verse was more important to the author than the beauty of it.

But it was a message Aragorn could not comprehend.

Having finished with his sad little verse, the hobbit's face spit into a smile as he finally addressed his waiting audience.

'_Good evening my ladies and gentlemen!' _the hobbit in the strange garb cried. 'Good evening my cobblers and good humble folk, a what a merry night this is that we should see our king in such good spirits.'

There was a growing rumble of a collective titter from the crowd, as if they were just waiting for the punchline of a joke.

'And what a merry night his son shall have with all our fine spirits.'

The crowd cackled, and Aragorn glanced at Théodred who was, as the Halfling had noted, far too into his cups to notice he was being mocked.

'And what fine visitors we have among us tonight. Gandalf Stormcrow, or as my people call him, the Disturbance of the Peace. My how far you must have come to see us, you've become quite white since last a hobbit beheld you. Well I suppose anyone would under prolonged exposure to the Tooks.'

Gandalf snorted through his nose.

'And Elves, my word I bet most of us have never even seen an elf before, let alone one as fine and noble as this here fellow. Tell me sir, what land do you hail from?'

Every eye in the room, including the king's, was locked on Legolas then, who seemed mildly annoyed by the attention.

'Mirkwood.' The elf said stiffly.

'Mirkwood, my what a grand sounding name, why I think I've even heard of it. Wonderful security, why only twelve dwarves escaped on old Thranduil's watch last year. But the wine, I have to say I'm not a fan. I mean I understand tradition and all but you wood-elves just have to learn to put your dwarves in after, otherwise it just ruins the taste for everyone else.'

Legolas shook his head, trying not to smile, and Gimli laughed so hard that he almost fell off his chair.

'Is that a dwarf from Erebor? My what a world we live in. Times past you would have been at each other's throats, now look at you. Riding side by side ready to save the day, tell me…do you spoon at night?'

Gimli yelped and turned as red as his beard.

'No, not quite yet? I'll come back at the end of the story then, shall I?'

Laughter circled around the hall as Legolas tried to calm Gimli down. The Fool flicked his eyes over to the boy, Calgacus who had been staring at his plate, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible until that one laugh had bubbled from his throat. One laugh too many it would seem.

'Dunland strikes again it would seem,' said the Fool, as the laughter of the Rohan whittled down into an almost accusatory silence. 'Fear not though my good Horse lords, the enemy is never who you think. I see eyes old in a face too young to have them, I see eyes too strange to belong to men. Odd characters like that, never live long past their use in the tale – but never ye fear, for we'll see them again in one way or the other.'

If there was any laughter now, it was of the nervous and uncomfortable kind. The Fool sighed in what must have been irritation.

'Ah woe is me; abstraction and words of doom never do go well in a Fool's show.'

And the laughter was back, almost as if it had never left at all.

Aragorn caught the eye of the Lady Éowyn who was laughing so hard she could barely speak, but she smiled at his questioning look.

'My Uncle's Fool.'

'A hobbit. Are there many of his kind in your land?' said Aragorn sharply.

'YES, THERE ARE!' cried the fool, as the crowd began banging their mugs of ale on the long tables before them.

'The hobbits from the Shire wandered up here from their gentle hills and found themselves embraced by the good people of _ROHAN!'_

A loud cheer from the crowd and the hobbit began to sing, a rather bawdy ballad about a young hobbit lass who had had the misfortune of falling in love with her own shadow.

Aragorn frowned and tried to catch the eye of Gandalf; he didn't know why but somehow the thought of hobbits here in Rohan made him uneasy. Maybe it was because they were such a gentle people, and this was such a harsh land.

The Fool flipped backwards onto the King's table and landed on his hands in front of Aragorn and Éowyn.

'That's not the reason why and you know it yer Majesty, think a little harder than that. This isn't like ruling a kingdom, you can conceivably do this if you think hard enough.'

Aragorn blushed, more than a little annoyed at the reference to his lineage. It was one thing to proclaim it to the Riders of Rohan, out on the plains where no one else could hear him. But it was quite another to have it thrown back in his face by the King of Rohan's odd-looking fool.

'Why so silent, sir? Does your mind dwell on your elven love? Mine would if I had such a thing – but then I'm of a more romantic nature than most. Which is fine when you're a lover in a song, but wordlessly unhelpful when your prospective father-in-law demands that you become the king of two countries before he'll sell his daughter.

Aragorn went as pale as he ever could.

'Pha what Seer is this Elrond. If he really could see the worlds that will come to past as I can, he'd know how fruitless such a quest is. They'll be no king on carven throne, they'll be no new life in Gondor's halls. And as for Arnor, it is dead and should always be so. You'll be no king, not really – but she'll be queen or she'll think she is anyway. But dead men wear goodmen's faces and its always the women who suffer worst. Ah poor Evenstar, better to die now before such horror comes about.'

Aragorn saw red. Somewhere in the new blackness of the mead-hall around him, a hobbit screamed, and a wizard yelled.

'Well, I hope you feel pleased with yourself, Aragorn,' said the disjointed voice of the wizard over Aragorn's mead addled brain. 'Because,' the wizard continued raising his voice a degree higher. 'If you thought you would endear yourself to the king by attacking a member of his court, you were sadly mistaken.'

Aragorn clutched his head and tried to bury his nose deeper into the pillow over his face. 'What happened, Gandalf? I remember very little after the Fool came out. And nothing at all after…after…'

The ranger sat bolt upright and cried out in disgust.

'What did I do, what foul force compelled me to strike a creature of the Gentle West? A kinsman of our own hobbits?'

'Fear, that is what compelled you Aragorn son of Arathorn,' said the wizard as close to thunder in his voice as the Dunedin had ever heard. 'You feared that the Fool knew too much that he should not, perhaps had you been sober, you might have controlled your terror to a more appropriate time. But you did not, and now you shall have to face the consequences of misdeeds.'

'Was he injured?'

'No, fortunately for you he was not, he hit the floor not too hard once you had struck him and was able to bounce back up again. I believe he found it all quite funny, Théoden did not, I have been in council with him through most of the morning and have managed to talk him down from chopping something off you. They prize the worth of their servants highly in Rohan.'

'As they should, I will apologise to the king and his Fool. Fool, truly no person was better suited to the name than I. What punishment has he settled on?'

'None, you shall escape retribution by the King's hand this day Aragorn, but I suggest you take pains to avoid him for the rest of the day at least and avoid the Fool entirely. He may try to provoke you again, I believe he plans to work the incident into his comedy routine, so please stay your hand if he does.'

'Have no fear on that account Gandalf, I shall stay in sour repentance for the rest of the day. But Gandalf, a hobbit in Rohan, how could such a thing come to pass.'

'Many ways Aragorn, and none of them leave a sweet taste in the mouth.'

Legolas walked down amongst the twisting streets and cobbled houses of Edoras, smiling as he glanced more and more hobbits amongst the crowd. Strange little creatures, smaller than a dwarf, and far comelier in appearance. No, he should not say that, for Gimli had grown on him, and if he was to be truthful, he quite enjoyed the sight of the dwarf's pleasingly full beard. Yet that didn't change the fact that the hobbits around him were certainly very strange, even by hobbit standards.

He had grown used to the sight of hobbits while on his journey, he had grown used to their curly heads of hair, and the little leaf-shaped ears. He had grown used to their round, apple-like cheeks, and their bronze button trimmed coats. Even Samwise with his plain peasant-like garb and bearing, had been a gentle soul to look upon, not so these hobbits. They looked thinner, ragged and hungry. If they wore waistcoats then they were of a much rougher kind than their Shire born kin. Strange leather holsters – possible for knives - were strapped to their hips and as for their coats, well they were long, and flapped in the breeze – again if they wore them at all. Hats with wide brims or round tops seemed to be quite popular even among the men. The Lasses and matrons of the Rohan hobbits wore plain dresses for the most part, long shapeless skirts. It was as if they had tried to bring the world of the Shire – buttons, suspenders, and handkerchiefs – into the world of the Rohan. But they had not truly succeeded on either account.

They seemed a tired, and thoroughly unfriendly lot.

Yet all that he could have understood, the hobbits he had known were from the Shire, and these clearly were no longer so. They had adapted as much as they could to the lives of the Rohan people, and that was good for them, it was just … it felt like it was more than that. Their faces were more ashen then a hobbit should be, though most of them had the same bronze completion as Samwise.

'Are ye an Encroacher, like the kind the Blarney fought?'

Legolas stopped mid-stride and frowned down at the small hobbit maiden who looked up at him through her messy black curls, tied sloppily back with a green ribbon.

'What?'

'The Blarney son, sir…the greatest Magic wielder in all the land…they said ye'd travelled with our kind before…how can ye not know him?'

'Ha, and he calls himself a hobbtla expert!' said a man in a blacksmith's apron.

'Well, have pity…maybe these hobbtla didn't celebrate the day of the Blarney, as ours do.'

An old woman growled over her spinning.

'Well?' said the girl who had first posed him the question. 'Did they?'

Suddenly all eyes were on him again and Legolas felt struck for words. For he had never heard the hobbits of the Fellowship speak of the Blarney Son before…wait no, that was not quite true. Samwise had said his name as a curse more than once…but the elf very much doubted these hobbits would appreciate that piece of knowledge.

In the end all he could do was shrug and try not to be offended at being called an encroacher by a child.

'Probably just a bunch of Tooks, looking for some cheap Adventure.'

Laughed an old hobbit, waving his walking stick in the air for emphasis.

'Tides may leave, and Earth may flatten, but one thing that'll never change is a Took's sense of _Adventure_.'

The way he said it, like longing for the wider world's wonders was somehow something to be ashamed of, angered Legolas. How many times had the Tooks placed themselves in danger for others – the elf had heard enough of the sneering small-minded nature of hobbits in the Shire from Master Bilbo, but he'd never thought to find it in a hobbit who'd clearly done more than a little adventuring himself.

'No actually, only one of my companions was a Took, my good hobbit. But a gentle thing he was, with more honour in his soul than you will ever know.'

'Oh aye, I'm sure he was…Took's are just fine as companions…so long as you've never had the misfortune of working for one. Cheapskates and terrors to the core. But don't look so sour, if you say the Took was a gem, then a gem he is. And I'm sure his companions were just doves. Tell me their names, or shall, I guess? Oh…let me see, if there was a Took then there must have been a Brandybuck?'

'Yes,' said Legolas sourly.

'And you're an elf on an 'Adventure'…so I'm guessing a Baggins managed to sneak their way in there somehow.'

This was infuriating, but Legolas nodded and the crowed tittered.

'Anyone else?'

Legolas was half tempted to go tell the old fool where he could stick his mocking laughter, but he'd been asked a question out right and Legolas had never been one for lying, especially when it would do no good. All the fine hobbits names had already been guessed; what harm could come from telling them of their servant?

'Gamgee.'

A collective intake of breath swept over the crowd, the old hobbit lowered his stick, a look of awe spreading across his ancient features.

'You travelled with a Gamgee.'

Legolas blinked, unsure how to react to this wonder in their eyes, so in the end all he did was nod.

The old hobbit hobbled over to him, reaching into the neck of his worn shirt and pulling out a tiny Acorn on a string.

'Do you know what this is, did that Gamgee tell you what this means?'

Legolas couldn't even speak, but he didn't need to, the hobbit could see it in his eyes.

'This means I am a follower of the Gamgee…of Halfred Gamgee. He saved my life, the life of my wife and children. Of my family. I'd been caught practicing the art of the Gany…you don't know what that is, and you never shall…. but safe to say it is no longer welcome in the Shire while Proudfoot reigns. I'd been thrown in a cell, ready for my execution…and he rescued me…rescued all that were held in that prison.'

The old creature looked down at the snow-white hair on his toes, tears welling up in his eyes.

'And now you come here, strange Thingol as you are, and you tell me you've travelled with kin of that great hobbit. Tell me…Thingol…' he looked up again, a warmth spreading over his old and bitter face. 'How can we not welcome you?'

The City of Edoras was all done up in the liveliest colours Gandalf had seen in many years. Shimmering gold, and deep-sea blue flags and cloth chains fluttered in the wind, and the wizard sat back and smiled.

Their work may be far from done yet, but this was a good sign of change for Rohan…for surely such beauty could not have existed while the people mourned for their half-mad king. Said King lowered himself onto the grass beside Gandalf. They sat now on a sloping hill just outside the palace, the perfect vantage point to spy on the festivities without being spotted yourself.

'This isn't for me,' said the sober king.

Gandalf raised his eyebrow at the man but said nothing – the king needed to get this out, and if the wizard could play a part in that, then all he needed was to stay silent.

'This is the hobbtla's doing…all their doing. Do you know I didn't even know I had them in my Kingdom? It is like I have been in a dream…in a nightmare…for so long that life has passed me by.'

'But now you are awake my liege, spend no more time mourning the years you have lost…embrace the ones you have yet to come.'

The king laughed at that.

'You sound like my fool.'

'Then a very wise fool is he. Another hobbit if I'm not mistaken.'

'Yes, another surprise…I'd no idea they were real…let alone I had one serving at my court. The last thing I remember before…before everything got bad was Théodred smiling at me…he doesn't do that anymore…now he will not even look at me.'

'He will not look at a great many things Théoden King…I do not believe it is you that he is afraid of.'

'No…but I'm part of it.'

Gandalf shook his head and turned his eyes forward again, as several hobbits in baker's attire arranged sweet tarts and apple-pies around a gingerbread depiction of a hobbit with a crooked sweet smile and a dark chocolate spear in his right hand. Chocolate, a sweet thing he had only ever tasted in the Shire before, and he didn't know why but that thought made him sad.

'Do you know, I think I recognize this festival from the Shire.' Said the Wizard. 'Though it was never so outlandish, perhaps they have execrated their people's traditions out of longing for a home they may never see.'

Gandalf felt the weight of the sadness in his companion as he replied.

'Yes, maybe so. My Fool tells me it is the festival of the Blarney. They celebrate it when home should be farthest away from their minds, and the time for laughter is dearest. Come,' said Théoden turning to the Wizard at last. 'I smell the sweet aroma of Treacle-tart in the air and your kinsman's spell seems to have left me hungry for something sweet to fill my belly.'

The Wizard laughed and for the first time since they had road into this kingdom of the horse lords, he felt a lightening in his chest. Perhaps the world could not be so terrible if treacle tarts were still eaten here.

Gimli bit hard on the tip of his pipe, holding it steady between his teeth as beside him the small Fool from last night's feast sat chewing on a blade of grass he'd plucked from the ground. The Elf – Legolas he reminded himself, they were friends now he must remember to call the Elf by his given name – stalked past them, throwing a tear-filled gaze at the small creature at Gimli's side.

'A sour kick-up in the town I think,' laughed the strange Fool.

'Yes, probably, we are not accustomed to seeing hobbits…well anywhere really. The ones we travelled with were…not like your people.'

'My people, their people, it's all the same really under the great big open sky. Your friends were from the Shire, but so are these hobbits, they've simply been gone longer.'

'Yes, I suppose everyone must change when they leave home.'

They both closed their eyes and sat back and basked in the intense rays of the mid-day sun. Gimli's worries were still on the forest, and the hobbits who now dwelt somewhere within it. True Gandalf had claimed them safe, yet even Wizards could be wrong on occasion.

'Ents aren't anything to be feared my lord,' laughed the fool. 'They're just big shepherds. The forest is their flock, and it is you who are the wolf.'

Gimli could not help but smile at that even though he still felt a shiver thinking of that forest.

'We are heading for a war my good fool, surely fear is something we all share.'

'Aye, a war my lord. The War to end us all.'

Gimli thought on this for a while, he was often taken by such maudlin thoughts himself. But eventually, like the others before it, he rejected this one too.

'Do not be so quick to dismiss hope, Fool. The Free people of Middle Earth may yet still prove their worth.'

Gimli's mouth twitched around his pipe, pleased at his own little rhyme. But the Fool shook his head, and scowling, opened his mouth and let out a sound that was quite unmelodious to the ear. So unpleasant was this noise, that it took the dwarf more than a little time to realise that the fool was a singing a song and not just yelling at someone who Gimli could not see.

The Free People of Middle Earth?

Ha! What a load of Derth!

They're as free as the Ground

When armies march, they take a Pound

What is Freedom to you, my Lord?

With thy fine Chains and mighty Sword?

Is Freedom the wealth held in a mountain old?

Or coins in your purse when thy service is sold?

Freedom is nothing, it is only a word

No strength can rescue a broken bird.

The People will die, as they always must do

Without revolution to mount such a cue.

A King is not free to do as he likes

He must show his people his power and might

The people aren't free, they must serve a king

Who'll bend an' crack 'em to the will of his whim.

No man shall be free

While duty hangs, he

Not king, nor prince, nor peasant or serf

Shall ever know peace on this Middle Earth

The only free one, is ever the Mewlip

For unlike the others he chooses his Whip

That Silmaril's his business, hidden under my kinsman's cap

And that is the reason, we all must endure this crap.

The voice of the singer, the voice of the Fool, changed on the last note. It was deeper, it was older, and it was far angrier than any hobbit's voice should ought to be. Gimli sat up and stared at the Fool, who blinked confusedly into the air around him.

'He's close, now, so close to us, yet not quite here.'

Gimli had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that he knew who the hobbit spoke of.

'He? Is it He who we fight against now, or is it another, whom do you fear child of the kindly west?'

'Should be more than one, but isn't, now he thinks he's whole, but he isn't. So close now but he shan't see, no shan't see till a few more chapters' have gone by.'

'Who?'

'The Villain of the story Gimli, well the main one anyway.'

'Sauron.'

'Yes, I suppose we must worry about him too, mustn't we?'

**Doric Translation**

***'So that's the king of the Rohan?'**

****'Odd, I always thought he'd be more menacing.'**


	38. Chapter 38: Searching for the Strawheads

Middle-Earth, Edoras, the Stables: T.A. 3019

'That Man is a Fool…he thinks he's leading them to safety, but all they'll find is a trap.'

The Wizard clothed in his new garb of power could be intimidating to mortal eyes in the most pleasant of moods, now he was positively terrifying. Or rather he would have been if the two mortals following him hadn't been focused on not falling out of earshot of his rant, to be afraid of it.

'He's just trying to do what he feels is best for his people…Helms' Deep has protected them before.' Aragorn's speech might have hit home a little harder if he hadn't had to hop and skip to try and match the wizard's pace.

'It will not do so this time.' The old man said in such a sweeping finality that it almost brought the three companions to a stop. But they had reached the stables, and Gandalf was far too intent on his purpose to be slowed at this stage.

'Then ye are tae flee fae them in rooze? Fin they might need the power o a wizard the maist, jis kis ye dinna get yer wye?' 1

Calgacus had really tried to be polite with the wizard when their journey had first begun, but at this point, well…somethings just had to be said.

The wizard paused, his hand curled around the mane of Shadowfax and turned to look at the boy. Strangely marked, and oddly portly, the child had been a question mark to the great wizard since first he had stood unbidden or planned at the council. Gandalf had met many men over his centuries of life on these shores, and good or bad he could anticipate their actions like a clock hitting the mark every hour. There were men of honour like the men of Rohan or Gondor – heroes, warriors, who sometimes let it all go to their heads. There were kings and leaders like the Dunedin, and poor souls lead astray like the men of the East and South and of course, there were the Savages.

Men who refused to acknowledge the power of the Valar – following their own gods and allying with the enemy more often than not. He had never…never really thought too hard on them, too busy with guiding the fate of the world. The fight between the Dunlanders and Rohan was by no means one sided, he knew that there had been injustices on both sides and that maybe if Gondor had handled the situation a little better this bitter feud need not have ever arisen at all. And yet it had always been so much simpler to sympathise with the men of Rohan, they were so less alien to the free peoples of Middle-Earth…their motivations, their beliefs and their alignments laid bare for anyone to see. Not so the Dunlanders, who were strange and bizarre even to each other…and yet, this boy had stood up at the council…had said he'd protect Frodo just as loudly as any man from Gondor.

And then, like a strike to the face the wizard knew what had to be done.

'We ride where we must son of Leomhann, now saddle up, the sun is waning, and our journey will be long and treacherous.'

'Fit?'2

'Oh, did I not tell you? You're coming with me.'

'Days o riding, urging oor mounts onward an nae a sign aat the Wizard ah'll let us pause even fur braith.' 3

'I can hear you.'

'Guid, ah wasn't lowering ma vice. Fin are we gonna stop? We've been riding fur sivven hale days an aire's nae been even a sign o those fleet-footed Strawheads.' 4

'We will ride until we find them, and I would thank you kindly to keep any such remarks to yourself, the Rohan do not take kindly to slurs.'

'Well neither div ah, bit ah had tae sit back an take it according tae yer future King o Gondor.' 5

Shadowfax jolted to a stop and Calgacus' own mount slammed into the back of him, causing both horses to rear up dangerously. The Wizard glared at the boy over his shoulder.

'You had to sit back and take it because you were sitting in the heart of the Rohan Kingdom – a kingdom that your people have seen fit to beseech with terror and bloodshed – had you said something they would have killed you.'

Calgacus scowled.

'Fit why div ye people keep implying we're still deein it, fin we're locked ahin ma Mither's trees?'6

The Wizard sighed, it had been a very long seven days…perhaps it was time for a rest, if nothing else but to make the boy be silent. And in another life, another world, perhaps they would have but the thunder of hooves very quickly put to bed that notion.

The Riders of Rohan, thundered towards the wizard and the boy in all their glory…their leader, Eomer, his head bared for once and his grin almost vicious as he pulled his mount to a stop just in front of the two.

'Well, Gandalf Stormcrow? But it has been many months since last you stole that horse you sit upon from my Uncle's stables. Tell me what business brings you back, perhaps to steal another horse, or a sword, or my Uncle's keep?'

'I was given Shadowfax Lord Eomer, as you well know.'

'But only with the understanding that you would return him within a matter of weeks, and then you never came back.'

'It is not for the minds of men to wonder what a wizard may do with his time, son of Eomund'

Gandalf's voice was strong and self-assured – yet Calgacus couldn't help but feel a strong sense of familiarity with this scene. As if the memory of Aragorn spewing very similar nonsense had suddenly possessed the wizard.

'It is when they wander away with his property? But never mind, perhaps you had your reasons – and perhaps they were so grand in scale that I as a 'lesser man' cannot even begin to fathom them, but they can hardly be stranger than your reasons for choosing this creature to ride with.'

Let it be the horse, let it be the horse, let it be the horse.

Of course, it wasn't the horse, it was never the horse.

All eyes turned to Calgacus, and he felt the stirrings of rage again. How dare he, how dare this inbred son of a cross-path whore look down on him and his people. How dare any of these men set themselves above him, it was not his ancestors who had invaded from a far north land – run rabid across the countryside killing every man women and child who wouldn't bow to their law. His people had lost their home, their lives. Their culture beaten out of them and forgotten and why? Because it didn't fit with what these blond, straw-headed, inbred donkey-testacles thought were right and true.

Because it wasn't…it wasn't…based on the ways of the Sea-men.

It was too much, too much to expect him to hold his tongue here while that man that son of a murderer unsheathed his sword and urged his mount forward – a sneer plastered over his blotted features. The shield in Calgacus' hand felt heavy as it should, at twice as long as his own body it hung halfway down his steed's legs. It was much more a weapon than a shield really – especially in Calgacus' hands, the tip of its bottom sharp enough to slice a man's throat from ear to ear.

'Ma name is Calgacus Aon-adharcach, son o Falkirk Leomhann, ah am o the people o the Glittering caves defiler o the deid an chosen o the Aon-adharcach. Ah am the child o she fa wis stained wi the blood o the slain a prince o the clan o the Cave Lion – ah am nae creature, an ah'll nae be caad sae bi a sister-fucking gype like yerself.'7

'Why you foul, loathsome whoreson. I shall do to you what the Rohan of old should have done to your pathetic little people.'

Sword and shield raised against one another, ready and willing to strike for their masters and then the Wizard really lost his temper.

Between the two young fools the ground cracked and rumbled, causing both horses to raise up and throw their respective fool from their backs.

'Enough!'

It was closer to thunder then a yell from an old man, and both sons of men clapped their hands over their ears but as you should know by now, no wizard is ever so easily shut out.

'Do you think this is all a game?' said the White Wizard, trembling dangerously on the back of Shadowfax. 'Do you think the free people of middle earth are at war to serve your personal vendetta? That the whole world stops and ends with the feud between the Men of the Hills and the Rohan?'

Eomer's men were helping him to stand, floored as he had been, but Calgacus remained on the ground – his jaw bruised and slit by the impact of the fall.

'There rides now a great army of the enemy for your uncle's gates Eomer son of Eomund, and if you are anywhere near the man your father was…the man your uncle raised… then you will put aside this childishness and ride with us to his aid.'

'An Army of _his _people rides to my Uncle's gates, so tell me wizard why shouldn't I cleave his head from his shoulders? Why should I spare him?'

And then both man and Wizard were startled by the sound of a high, broken cackle. Calgacus still laid where his horse had thrown him, his head thrown back and his eyes closed as he roared with laughter.

'And what precisely is so funny…Dunlander?'

'Ach, ah am gye sorry… it jis aye take me bi hech fin Outlanders spik aboot ma kind like we're the evil. Like we're really the hoojakapiv aat ye shid be feart o fin the sun sets tonight.' 8

'I am not afraid of you…you savage child of the Hill; I am disgusted by you.'

'Ach please,' said Calgacus as he struggled to his feet and leant against his horse just to stop himself from collapsing with mirth. 'Ye really think ye ken fit disgust is lord o the gentle plains. Fin the land ahin ye holds the wrath o the deid back, the walking, wriggling wretches aat slither fae their graves. They hunt ye aat nicht, fin ye sleep, fin ye think ye're safe, aat's fin they hunt…aat's fin they feed.' 9

'Ye think ma kind; the people o the clans, are the worst this world has tae offer, son o Rohan? The worst aat can scare ye, or harm ye, or pip yer throat oot. Ye ken naething o terror, o waking in the nicht knowing aat ye aren't alone…kis they nivver sleep, they nivver stop an ach…ah can assure ye…they're always hungry.' 10

'Sae, the Wizard's richt, in a wye, Riders o Rohan. Oor people's feud is sma, petty a completely useless kill me if ye like ah care not, bit ye're straw aa the wyen through if ye think aat'll even putten a dent in the armies o yer enemies. Div ye think the dead waist time fighting amon themselves?' 11

With a timing that almost felt intentional, a flash of lightning lit up the sky and a roll of thunder accompanied Calgacus climbing onto his horse again and Gandalf nodded at him in almost approval.

'The Sky itself calls to you now Riders of Rohan, heed the call and return to your people…or ignore it and fail them entirely.' Said the Wizard.

'The call?' said one of the younger riders, a boy younger even than Calgacus. 'Who's giving the call, I thought we were banished? Is it the King, has he reneged on his judgment? Or is it Lord Wormtongue…and another trick?'

Gandalf did not address his reply to the boy, but rather his general.

'Come home Eomer Son of Eomund and the Riders of Rohan – your king is healthy and whole of mind, and free of influence unjust. And he calls for you now…tell me, will you answer it…or be forever trapped within your now self-imposed exile?'

There was the ripple of sound across the width of these mighty riders, and Eomer looked torn – on the one hand, his uncle was not only well again and free of Grima's influence, but he called for Eomer. Called for him to return and fight at his side. On the other hand, to heed that call would mean to follow the wizard, and to follow the wizard would mean…not slaying his savage companion where he sat on one of the Rohanian horses.

Rage boiled up in side of him at the sight of that and yet…and yet…the world was larger than his hatred of the Dunlanders. They would pay, oh yes, he would make sure of that, but now was not the time, right now his uncle needed him for greater deeds than the slaughter of one, husky, Dunlander.

'Men of Rohan join me, for we ride now for the king of the Mark and home!'

There were none left to greet them when the riders of Rohan returned home. Not so much as an old crone baking in her hovel, but they could ride no more, they would have to stop and rest there if only for the night. The journey to Helms Deep would take another week entirely, and that was only if they pushed their steeds to their limits.

Gandalf didn't like it, with each passing hour they wasted here the enemy's victory grew ever closer, but even he had to admit that most horses had not the endurance of Shadowfax and that death was not a fair compromise for speed.

Calgacus was a boiling pot of rage only kept in control by his own exhaustion. Stay away from Eomer and try not to provoke the others…that was what the wizard had said at the beginning of their journey. He'd already broken that rule once, he was not about to do so again here, within the home of the riders, with the shadows growing ever darker by the moment.

He was not a fool, least not anymore, the Dead may be the enemy, but the Riders of Rohan were no friends.

'And so, this is where he hides during the dark hours of the night?'

Calgacus froze over his horse's mane, the dark strands of the horse's hair clutched between his fingers. He should have known this was how the lord would seek him out, he should have known this was how the fight would end. The Son of the Mark was a proud warrior, and the thing about proud warriors, no matter what race they were from, they always seemed to want to hold the moral ground. The Lord could have killed him in front of the wizard – which in its self would be its own kind of stupidity – surrounded by his men, and a hundred or so heavy spears. But he hadn't, and not because he didn't want to watch his weapon plunge into Calgacus' body – but because it wouldn't have been unhonourable to do it like that.

There would have been very little chance Calgacus could have fought back then – but now, one on one – it was a much more honourable match.

'Anely fin the lord slinks in aifter him.'12

Calgacus turned and faced his pursuer.

'Sae, is this fit ye've planned it then, take a knife tae me in the mirk? Hardly muckle mair honourable nor letting yer men div it in braid daylight, is it?' 13

'Perhaps I'm not honourable at all, you'll find boy that in the real world, ancient codes of chivalry matter less and less.'

The blue faced man laughed at that.

'An ye think ye ken the real world, dive ye? Running aroon on the back o yer great mount, a sword in yer hand, an a legion willing followers aat yer back?'14

A growl from the prince, much more animal than man really.

'These days are dark days indeed, boy – the enemy is ever watchful, and he sends his soldiers into every corner of my people's lands. To Rape, pillage and slaughter them into compliance – I have seen things, brat, things that would make your soft form tremble at just the thought of them. Men and Women torn apart like dogs, the half breed offspring of Man and Orc waddling around like it really had any right to breath – but then why am I telling you? After all it was your people who started it all, who crawled from their mudholes into the lands of decent folk, and muddied and ruined everything they touched.'

'We might hiv said the same o yer kind eence, fin ye first crawlt fae the north on the leash o Gondor. Ye raped, pillaged an slaughtered across oor land until aire wis naething left it – an then ye teen it an pretended ye'd owned it aa along.' 15

'We were given it; it was our land to own.'

'Gien it bi fa? A people aat had nae bade on it fur near on centuries coontin? Ach aye, clearly, they had the richt aire, noo didn't they? Obviously, we were in the wrong fur building a lyffe on a patch o toom land.' 16

'You're trying to play the victim with me? After all your people have done to mine?'

'Weel noo, we should baith say aat, Horse Lord. But ah'll nae go doon aat road wi ye… too lang an trachle bi half ah shid think. Sae, shall we jis cut this part, an hiv done wi the murder already?' 17

'I haven't come here to kill you.'

'Really, noo aat is a shock.'18

'I am not so fool as to lay harm to the companion of a Wizard, but I do have to ask…why?'

'Why?'

'Why are you here? What has a Dunlander to do with the fight of the free people of middle earth, other than to be slaughtered by them that is.'

Calgacus couldn't help but to smile despite that comment.

'Ma, bit ye really div hiv a heid fu o straw. Ye've nae heard a single word ah've said, hiv ye?'19

'What?'

'Think aboot it this wye, fit wye would ah be cooperating wi a man fa could literally shoot the power o the gods oot o his walking stick? Fit could be sae terrible aat ah need tae cosy up tae aat kind o power?'20

The Horse Lord cocked his head in complete bewilderment.

'Ach, ye peer thing, ye really div belive aat orcs are the worst ye'll ever see in yer lifetime. Orcs are mortal jist like ye an ah. Fin ye run them ben wi aat sword, they'll drop jist as ah will – bit the dead won't. Ye can't kill fit is nae even alive tae begin wi. Ye shid ken aat bi now, ah certainly fair go if they had taken any kin o mine.' 21

'And what exactly do you know about my kin?'

'Ah ken yer sister's hine mair intelligent than the lot o ye.' 22

Eomer laughed at that, it almost sounded genuine to the ear of Calgacus.

'I could have told you that myself.'

They both smiled, and it felt strange to both men to share any comradery with…with a man like this. A man of their enemy.

'Ah ken yer Uncle cannae last much longer, even wi aat Wizard oot o his heid aat last. An ah ken yer cousin's dead.' 23

'That is a lie, he was alive when I left and…and Gandalf would have told me if…if they'd buried him.'

'Ach nae, ah never said he wis buried. Ah said he wis dead, that doesn't mean he's in the ground. He's up alright…walking aroon, drinking his aul-man oot o hoosie an hame – bit he's nae alive, Eomer.' 24

It was the first time that Calgacus had referred to the Prince of the Mark by his given name.

'An he's nae yer cousin anymore, he's something else, something quite dead. He'll walk an blether like a man, weel enough aat he might even be able tae fool a wizard – bit ah'm fae the land folks caa "Dunland", an ah ken ma dead-men.' 25

'You know nothing, my cousin is a man greater than you shall ever be.'

'Oh aye,' laughed the man of the Clans. 'He's a man alright, aat least until the day he gives inta his craving. The craving aa the dead hiv… the craving fur the flesh o the living. Ah wouldn't be surprised if aat's fit wye he buries himself in his cups, tries tae fight fit he really is on the inside.' 26

'And what exactly is that?'

'A monster.'

'And you would know all about that?'

'Mair than ye fair go?' 27

'You really are insane.'

'Aye, ah shid think ah am bi noo. Ah shid think we aa are.' 28

And he laughed, laughed as he hadn't done since…since Boromir's death: loud, and with a kind of sheer abandon you only really found in children, and by the time he was done the Prince of the Mark had faded back into the shadows.

I could tell you of all that happened then, I could tell you of the seven days ride those tired, angry young men partook in –no rest, no slowing, barely enough time to stop to fill their bellies before…before they reached their destination.

Helms Deep.

It should have been a sanctuary, a fortress to hold off even the worse of the Kingdom's enemies…but it wasn't. Not anymore, for the thing was not only under siege, it's walls were battered and crumbling. The last hope of the people left stranded inside was the slim chance that those stones, those centuries old stones would be able to withstand the besieges of the orcs all around it. Not men…not mostly anyway…Orcs, large orcs, larger than they should have been. Orcs, Eomer knew, with the white hand of Saruman plastered to their breast plate. He'd been right, he'd known he'd been right and now…well now everyone else knew it too.

'A lethal thing, isn't it?'

Eomer's head snapped to the sound of the burr that had crept up beside him. The Dunlander was not smiling in glee, as Eomer would have expected him to. He was scowling, scowling down at the battlefield like it had done him a personal injury. The bright blue shade of his soft features casting a rather unnatural shadow over the young man's strange face.

'What?' said Eomer, half expecting to hear some snarky reply instead of…

'Always bein right.'

Eomer did not respond, for his hands were shaking too greatly on the reins of his steed to be able to make the gesture he desired. Besides which it was too late, the wizard was already rearing up to signal the charge.

And so, the battle began.

A short Battle, hardly it felt, worth the fourteen-day ride it took to get here. The orcs were tired and worn down by the time the Riders of Rohan had arrived in the last hour to save the day.

And then wouldn't you know it just as they were chasing them off the field, ready to strike the killing blow on the shivering cowards…the Trees of Fangorn swung in. It was all they could do to rein in their horses before they too met the horrifyingly fate of the orcs. It was not a clean death…no quick slice to the throat or stab in the gut for the orcs of Saruman… it was what they deserved, but still such deaths sat uneasily on the shoulders of the Riders of Rohan.

Now the only thing left to do was decide what should happen to the Men that had fought with the enemy. And if Eomer was to be honest…he felt uneasy at the proposed prospects of calling for their death; just a few weeks ago he would have been the loudest voice in the crowd baying for their blood.

A great feast was in the making for the heroes returned and the victorious dead, so the main hall in their fortress was all done up in splendours galore. As Eomer made his way through the several gallons of Holly some serving wench had managed to locate around the walls of Helms Deep, he tried not to get lost with his own morose thoughts. His sister had barely said two words to him after they had embraced at his return, too busy mooning over 'Isidor's Heir' to even notice that her brother was alive at all.

And his cousin…well…he hardly possessed the courage to look at him at all. The Dunlander's words echoed in his mind…they weren't real…they couldn't be…dead men didn't walk the earth like that. It just wasn't possible. Was it?

Few of the men of the Enemy had survived the night – Eomer told himself that he didn't care, after all they'd reaped their own path to this fate. And yet, as he stood beside his Uncle's temporary throne, his Cousin on the other side, looking down at these strange ragged men he couldn't help but pity them. Had History's course been different it could have been Rohan Men knelt on the floor before a Dunland King. Oh, many would claim that men of the Rohan would never stoop to follow the enemy, but then would they have? Could they have ever become so desperate…desperate to escape their fate…their land…their home that they would sign over their souls in a heartbeat just to see the light of day for one more hour.

'You have chosen the Enemy's banner to fight behind,' said his Uncle in a tired voice, as if he'd done this too many times to really care anymore. 'And yet, you are not orcs but men, and men have a choice whether to do good or evil. You must be punished, but I do not believe that we of the Second born can so easily condemn one another's actions.'

Throughout the speech Eomer's eyes kept trained on the three bent heads of the enemy war Chieftains. They lacked the facial markings of the boy…Calgacus…and yet there was something familiar about them. Their skin was pale, and their chests seemed so still down there on the floor that it hardly seemed they drew breath at all. They had not looked up at his uncle throughout any of his speech, almost as if they lacked the strength to hold their necks up under their own freewill.

Again Calgacus' words rose up to haunt him – I'm from Dunland, and I know my Dead men – could these men too see it in his cousin.

'And yet, we cannot ignore what you and your people have done to mine and so a punishment fitting the crime must be decided upon. I shall not kill you or the men that served you…instead I shall send you to work, rebuilding that which you have helped destroy in the first place. And then once that is done, I shall send you home with the promise that none of your people shall ever darken my land with their greed, their pain or their anger again.'

As if one animal, the three men looked up and Eomer stepped back. For those were not the eyes of men at all, but something older, something colder, and far hungrier. Without realising it Eomer's sword was out of its scabbard and he was lunging at the creatures sat before him, but as usual the prince of the mark was too slow.

For these were not living men, forced to work around the fragility of their own mortal bodies, they were not even dead men, but shells housing something greater than that. They moved as if they were very wind, the very dust itself and before the prince could so much as swing his sword they were on the king like hounds to a fox.

And so, it was, that the king of Rohan died.

Long Live the King!

That's what they said.

Long may he reign!

That's what they screamed.

Idiots and fools the lot of them.

What did they know of kingship? What did they know of responsibility? What did they know of the terror, that sheer white-hot terror that came with knowing that you could never live up to any of it?

'Your majesty?'

The new king of Rohan drew his gaze away from his shaking hands curled around the goblet of wine, and looked up.

Speaking of fools.

King Théoden's fool approached his new king with all the bravado that only the truly peasant bread of soldiers seemed to possess.

'Your cup runneth over and spillith on the floor if you keep shaking it like that my king.' Giggled the fool.

The King tried not to scowl, he really did, but the fool unnerved him…in fact all Halflings unnerved him. There was something distinctly unnatural about them, no creature should ever be that small…why even dwarves were bigger than them.

The creature hopped up onto the stool beside the throne and smiled at him.

'Shall I say you seem troubled, but the death of a father in times like these would be enough to worry anyone.'

'Yes, what's your point, fool?'

'Nothing, for I am a fool, not a Wizard and therefore I need no point to speak. I can just say what I will and, as king you must listen or feel the wrath of your pretty court.'

The King laughed, and his wine sloshed to the stone tiles of his father's floor.

'I am king, the court has no sway over me.'

'Aye, if that were true then a warrior your father would have been to the day, he died…but in battle he did not fall my king.'

'No at the teeth of the Dunlanders he fell…you don't have to remind me.'

'Tis a fate worthy of song some would say.'

'Oh, Valar you're not going to make it into one of your horrible little ballads, are you?'

'Perhaps, for who would weep for the fire king if they did not know why he fell as he did. Why he plunged on even when others told him to stop Why the Turtle-Fish ate him? Aye who would weep for Théodred lost prince of the Horse lords, choking on a piece of bread?'

The King stilled, the cold hand within his fine robe curling around the armrest of his father's throne.

'What did you say?'

'Say? Say nought I for the fool sees all and then again nothing at all, for who would believe him if he did. Again, my lord I am not a wizard, the fate of your world concerns me not.'

'And what world does concern you fool, if I may be so bold to ask?'

'Mine, my lord.'

'And what world precisely is that?'

'Why the world that shall come after the players have finished, and the curtain has closed, and the professors and doctors have given their closing remarks. The world that shall come after you my lord, when you and your kin are buried deep underground and mine dance in the sun with the lesser men you once thought beneath you.'

'Is this a joke?'

'Isn't everything?'

'Get out.'

'Aye, and so I shall…for I fear we shall have a long march ahead of us when the fires of Gondor light the ways of the living and the paths of the dead.'

'What are you…'

And then the door burst open and the ranger swept in, a scream on his lips.

'The Beacons are lit! The beacons are lit! Gondor calls for aid!'

Théodred glanced at the smirking fool, and then turned his gaze back to the panting ranger.

'And Rohan will answer.'

Doric Translation

1 - 'Then you are to flee from them in anger? When they might need the power of a wizard the most, just because you don't get your way?'

2 - 'What?'

3 - 'Days of riding, urging our mounts onward and not a sign that the Wizard will let us pause even for breath.'

4 - 'Good, I wasn't lowering my voice. When are we gonna stop? We've been riding for seven whole days and there's not been even a sign of those fleet-footed Strawheads.'

5 - 'Well neither do I, but I had to sit back and take it according to your future King of Gondor.'

6 - 'Why do you people keep implying we're still doing it when we're locked behind my Mother's trees?'

7 - 'My name is Calgacus Aon-adharcach, son of Falkirk Leomhann, I am of the people of the Glittering caves, defiler of the dead and chosen of the Aon-adharcach. I am the child of she who was stained with the blood of the slain and prince of the Clan of the Cave lion – I am no creature, and I'll not be called so by a sister-fucking idiot like yourself.'

8 - 'Oh, I am very sorry…it just always takes me by surprise when Outlanders speak about my kind like we're the evil. Like we're really the thing that you should be afraid of when the sun sets tonight.'

9 - 'You really think you know what disgust is lord of the gentle Plains? When the land behind you holds the wrath of the dead back, the walking, wriggling wretches that slither from their graves. They hunt you at night, when you sleep, when you think you're safe, that's when they hunt…that's when they feed.

10 - 'You think my kind; the people of the clans, are the worst this world has to offer, son of Rohan? The worse that can scare you, or harm you, or rip your throat out. You know nothing of terror, of waking in the night knowing that you aren't alone…because they never sleep, they never stop and oh…I can assure you…they're always hungry.

11 - 'So, the Wizard's right, in a way, Riders of Rohan…our people's feud is small, petty and completely useless. Kill me if you like I care not, but you're straw all the way through if you think that'll even put a dent in the armies of your enemies. Do you think the dead waste time fighting amongst themselves?'

12 - 'Only when the lord slinks in after him.'

13 - 'So, is this how you've planned it then, take a knife to me in the dark? Hardly much more honourable than letting your men do it in broad daylight, is it?'

14 -'And you think you know the real world, do you? Running around on the back of your great mount, a sword in your hand, and a legion of willing followers at your back?'

15 - 'We might have said the same of your kind once, when you first crawled from the north on the leash of Gondor. You raped, pillaged and slaughtered across our land until there was nothing left of it – and then you took it and pretended you'd owned it all along.'

16 - 'Given it by who? A people that had not lived on it for near on centuries counting? Oh yes, clearly they had the right there, now didn't they? Obviously, we were in the wrong for building a life on a patch of empty land.'

17 - 'Well now, we could both say that, Horse lord. But I'll not go down that road with you…too long and painful by half I should think. So, shall we just cut this part, and have done with the murder already?'

18 - 'Really, now that is a shock.'

19 - 'My, but you really do have a head full of straw. You've not heard a single word I've said, have you?'

20 - 'Think about it this way, why would I be cooperating with a man who could literally shoot the power of the gods out of his walking stick? What could be so terrible that I need to cosy up to that kind of power?'

21 - 'Oh, you poor thing, you really do believe that orcs are the worse you'll ever see in your lifetime. Orcs are mortal just like you and I. When you run them through with that sword, they'll drop just as surely as I will – but the dead won't. You can't kill what is not even alive to begin with. You should know that by now, I certainly would if they had taken any kin of mine.'

22 - 'I know your sister's far more intelligent than the lot of you.'

23 - 'I know your Uncle can't last much longer, even with that Wizard out of his head at last. And I know your Cousin's dead.'

24 - 'Oh no, I never said he was buried. I said he was dead, that doesn't mean he's in the ground. He's up alright…walking around…drinking his father out of house and hame – but he's not alive, Eomer.'

25 - 'And he's not your cousin anymore, he's something else, something quite dead. He'll walk and talk like a man, well enough that he might even be able to fool a wizard – but as you've pointed out yourself, I'm from the land folks call "Dunland", and I know my dead-men.'

26 - 'He's a man alright, at least until the day he gives into his craving. The craving all the dead have…the craving for the flesh of the living. I wouldn't be surprised if that's why he buries himself in his cups, tries to fight what he really is on the inside.'

27 -'More than you would.'

28 -'Yes, I should think I am by now. I should think we all are.'


	39. Chapter 39: Away with the Fairies

Arda, Deep within the Oceans of Middle-Earth; T.A.3003

In a place your kind will not know for many thousands, upon thousands of years is the land in which I make my home. It is not a country with borders or limits, all it has is the top and the very deep bottom. Neither of which you have ever properly touched.

Do not think me cruel when I say this – for I only speak the truth, the Race of Man was always meant to populate the world of the surface, and it is in the deep in which I make my home. In which all my kind make our home.

What am I?

That is the joke you've just not got yet; for part of you already knows.

I am a creature of the ocean, the very deepest part of your earth.

I am a beast that very few of your land bound kind have ever seen at all.

But you have.

You have seen my shell.

And my fins.

You have seen my jaws close around that strange little person – the one that so desperately sought the glass ball that the nice men folk in the harbour had fed me that day.

Yes, I think you remember me now.

I am Turtle. I am Fish.

I am Fastitocalon.

Though many just call me a Turtle-Fish.

So long I have swum in these oceans – born as I was when the world was flat, that sometimes it feels like all my life is set in one big circle. We hatch from our eggs; we swim from our creche in the shallows of the ocean, and then we move out to the wider world. We might try to live interesting lives, do good things – I can't tell you how many small people I've ferried across the ocean, not all of them very grateful – but in the end what our existence comes down to, is the simple act of keeping our bodies functioning. I swim to eat, and I eat to swim. I can rest, close my eyes and sleep but always I must keep moving.

Just like you really.

Always we must keep moving, we cannot look back – if we were meant to, our necks would let our heads turn all the way round. Our purpose, both in the sea and on land is to keep moving forward – for when we do not, aye then my friends, that is when we truly go mad.

Ow.

Forgive me, my stomach begins to pain me…strange I have never felt a pain quite like this one, I really hope it wasn't something I at…

BOOM

And so, ends Fastitocalon, last of the noble Sea-Turtle Families, we shall never see his like again. Longer and larger than the greatest of your modern whales, there was many a foolish mortal that had mistaken the vegetation and rocky sculpture of his shell for some new land to claim. The largest beast that will ever swim or walk the earth, now nothing but particles in the water. There were no words that existed in the time that Fastitocalon swam the oceans of the world, to describe what happened to him, but there is now: vaporisation.

And what, dear reader, was left behind when the body of the Turtle-Fish vanished from history? Why, only a very small figure – still wearing the tattered blue robes of his body's former occupation. Perhaps we would call him a wizard, where we of foolish stock, for no servant of the Valar would ever be as mad as the son Finwë had become.

After all, only a madman would use a Silmaril in such a terrible way.

Middle-Earth, The Land of Dunland, The Castle of Dunlich; T.A. 3019

Mab had not smiled in a real way in twenty-nine years, not since Llue's death and…well, everything that had come after that. She couldn't, not in the way other people seemed to do so naturally.

She might pretend, she'd done so for years while her son still dwelt under the branches of her cage. But it wasn't real, it could never be real not with the voices…the voices of the men that had crossed over, the men whose bodies should lie in the dirt, filling her brain with their noise.

To be drenched in the blood of the slain was to be gifted they said, but never so grand a joke had existed. Aye, yes, she could do many things could this mage Mab. She could summon fire to her fingertips, or lift the ground itself with a jab of her smallest toe. She could even enter your mind, and make you think her thoughts were your own, and many such other marvellous powers, but they always came with a price. Headaches, nosebleeds and the inability to feel the same kind of joy that others threw around so casually.

When she had snatched the sun from their land, the other people of the clans had grieved. Had lit fires and waited up all night long for the sun, the real sun or moon to rise and light their world. But it would never come, and at night Mab could hear the wailing of their hearts at the loss. It was why she had sent the jewel – made from the old cracked stone in her staff up to fill the void. That stopped the fires, and the nightly wailing at least – but nothing could take the place of the true sun. Not really.

Just like nothing could take the place of what she had lost.

But you have to understand, Mab didn't do it because she felt any loss from the sun herself – the voices, and the scratch of magic under her skin were too strong now for her to feel much of anything at all. She had done it because she found their crying annoying. Really Mab found all emotion, that thanks to her gift she could no longer quite experience, annoying.

Take now for instance, she was certain that the young girl – the young scout she had been all those years ago would have felt pity for the young woman, that stumbled injured and bloody into the hall of Dunlich castle on that terrible night. But the woman she was now, the mighty Mab, felt only a brief flash of pain from the voices in her head – as she tried to focus on what the stupid chit was even saying.

'The Dead! The Dead, have broken the banks of the Ancient Moors, the Bear Clan has fallen! The Bear clan has fallen!'

Call the horn, summon the other clans to the keep of Dunlich and wait…wait until the dead came. This is the plan those that still stand, what little there is left of them concoct, and this is the ground in which she shall build her greatest masterpiece.

Part of her, the forgotten girl still hidden within the sorceress' chest, knew that this was how it would end. This was how it was always supposed to end, with the death of all those that no longer mattered to the world beyond. Perhaps that was why she had let Calgacus and his pregnant wench leave; she'd known what he was trying to do – she was Mab, she always knew, and she had let him do it anyway. Maybe this was why she had raised the cage in the first place.

The clans were always fated to end like this, and perhaps she had hoped to spare the rest of the world – the evil, the ignorant, the innocent, all of them – from suffering the same fate. For a very short time, the Leohamm and her had deluded themselves that they could stop this. That they could rescue their people, by trapping the leader of the Dead in a newly conceived mortal body. But it was just playing for time, it hadn't destroyed the dead, all it had done was scatter them. All it had done was leave them open for a new king and this one, aye, she could not trap this one in her womb.

The only thing to do now was run, and when the earthly plain had abandoned you…there was only one place to run to.

Middle Earth, Dunland, The broken camp of Gondor

The Brother had not thought of Gondor in…he could not count the years anymore. It was a pale ghost city only held to life by his fading memory; if he chose to, he would forget it entirely one day and be all the better for it. What more could Gondor do for him, do for his men now that they were locked in here with them?

Though whether he meant the Dunlanders or the dead, the Brother was never quite sure anymore. Personally, he privately preferred the dead but that was because…well.

'Sir! Sir!'

A soldier, a strangely tall fellow with an outrageously long nose, stepped into the officer tent that the brother had been occupying these last…what was it? Twelve, sixteen years? It was hard to remember when they had lost the first campsite, certainly well into the years without the sun. It was all a blur of darkness, screams, and the wailing of the restless dead.

'Yes? What is it?'

He shouldn't snarl, not at his men and yet his life now provided so few opportunities for self-contemplation, even of the depressing sort he was so lately fond of, that any interruption felt like a personal attack.

'Sir, it's the Dunlanders!' The Soldier barks, his face so still and obedient, and the brother, well he couldn't stop himself from laughing at that.

'Oh yes? What are they doing now? Eating their own young, perhaps? Stabbing one another with pitchforks? Ooh, oh, I know the dead are marching and it's the end of everything we know and love. Well come on out with it boy, what would they have with us now?'

Perhaps boy was a little inaccurate, after all even the youngest of the soldiers were closer to the last counting age, than they were their boyhood. Blast it, Dunland culture was like a disease. Seeped in to the very pores and poisoned the blood. Thirty was old for those savages because even before the cage, and the dead, and Gondor, Dunland was a terrible land – where only the hardest made it through early youth at all. Thirty was old enough, so counting past it was just tempting fate. Bad habit to get into that, he'd have to watch it or before long he'd be ordering all the men to paint their faces blue.

'It's the horn my lord, the Dunlich Horn has been blown. Mab calls for the Clans, the Warriors and everyone who can still run to meet at Dunlich keep.'

The Dunlich Horn…the bloody Dunlich horn, why had he ever agreed to that pact? Agreed to come without question when Mab or one of her pet Chieftains blew that bloody horn. The thing wasn't even a proper horn, but a hollowed-out tusk of some ancient and long dead creature. It didn't even make a proper noise – or at least not one that carried past the first village at the edge of the old castle's lands. They had to send runners out to their allies, the major clans, the healers and the Gondor Army – and now they awaited his reply. Part of him wanted to say no, to tell them all that they could all go and die at thirty if they were so desperate to leave this world behind.

And if it had just been his own life to consider he would have joyfully done so. What did it matter if the dead were regrouping, or if the whole of middle earth was going to die; his brothers were dead, and he would be only too happy to follow them. And yet, in this land there were others to consider, men who demanded that he led them…even if it was only towards a slightly less painful death. He was not a good man, but he liked to think his moral integrity was not so derogated as to abandon his own people.

'Sir?' Said the ridiculously tall soldier.

And in the end, there was really only one thing to say.

'If Dunland calls for aid, then Gondor shall answer.'

Middle-Earth, Dunland, The Rocky Border between the silent Sheep grazing grounds, and the Ancient Moors: T.A.3019

Titania was a sheep herder, only now there were no sheep anymore. When the sun had vanished all those years ago, the animals had died out with it. Some fell into chasms between rocks, or drowned themselves in the deep end of the great river – so terrified were they in a land without light.

Others had had slower deaths. Many had starved, as plants would not grow either in the darkness or the unnatural light of Mab's gem. And then there were the truly unfortunate, the creatures that became something quite unsheep like. Beasts that tried to feed from the new sprouts that grew from the lowest branches of Mab's trees.

Bigger than a regular sheep, with a skull that looked twisted and hollow; and great horns that grew twice the size of the terrible thing's head. It was a wonder it could lift its neck at all, let along charge with it lowered as fast as it did.

That's what she'd been doing you see, when she'd seen the dead, in all their wretched glory. Most people, small boned and weakened from the lack of sunlight, wouldn't have been able to out run the beast – after all the only sign it was there at all, lurking in the shadows, was the brief flash of those red eyes before, it leapt. But then again, Titania was a sheep herder, and the beast no matter how Mab's magic had changed it, was still a sheep. Just one whose wool was a bit unusable.

She had run. Jumping from rock ledge to rock ledge, hoping to trip up the monster in the dark light of the gem. A terrible sound, like that of a human babe came from behind where only the beast could have lurked, but Titania Caora Shasannach knew enough not to look back. You never looked back when the twisted sheep chased you. But this could not last, the broken rocks of her people's grounds were beginning to give way to the smoother boulders of the Ancient Moors. Even now she could swear she could feel the tickle under her nose, of the sharp stench of the bogs. It smelt ever so slightly of…burning mud, odd as that felt to say. There must be a Bear clan village not too far away, all she had to do was run a little faster and…well…they'd definitely kill the thing behind her. Even in this half-light Bear Clan archers never missed; they may however, not particularly care if they hit her too, which was why she had to run faster. Let the beast be the bigger target before they saw her, that was the way to live, at least for today anyway.

And she'd almost done it too, she'd caught sight of the low, green burning torches of the recognisable mud huts of a Bear Clan settlement. But…something was wrong. Where were the guards, where were the arrows? Where were the people? They were gone, the green torches still shone against the red light of the gem but that was it – the huts were empty, empty of life, empty of warmth, empty of the safety she so desperately sought. And so terrible was this thought that Titania had stumbled then, though no rock caught her foot. And the beast caught her, its barbed horn sinking deep into the flesh of her side. Titania screamed but no one was around to hear it, well, no one living anyway.

She couldn't feel anything below her stomach, and even then, the only feeling that invoked was a dull ache that gradually crept up inside her, till she felt like rocks were scraping at the flesh inside and her mouth burned.

The beast that had pricked her had run away, and for a brief glorious moment, Titania had not understood why. The Hunters were gone, and if they had been where they should be, surely a beast like this would never actually be afraid of them. And then she had heard it, that slow step, shuffle, step – the kind of sound that only someone who was not used to moving the feet they used made.

It was the march of the Dead.

Middle-Earth, Dunland, Dunlich Castle; Guest Hall: T.A. 3019

This was the story the young sheep herder had told Mab, as the older sorceresses bent over the red gash in Titania's hip. Blood had soaked through her fur wrap as she had run, until the thing looked like it had been painted red. Possibly as some kind of joke on a wedding day.

'Mmm,' said the gaunt and bony magic wielder. 'And you never fainted once?'

It was a peculiar question for Mab the sorceress to ask – there were tales of her serving with the healers in the burning caves of course, but really, they were only rumours and most people, sheep herder or otherwise dismissed them as nonsense. She was Mab, blessed of the Fallen, most powerful Magic user in all the world. Or at least the world of the clans, though to many that was the only world that mattered. She was Mab, if she cared about anything to do with Titania it should be how many dead men, she'd seen on her way to Dunlich. Which was why she tried desperately to remember; recalling in vivid detail the faces, the rotten flesh of them that she had seen near the Glanduin River. They had been gazing at themselves, just staring at that distorted foul reflection as if nothing else mattered in the world. That was how she'd managed to sneak past them, despite the fact that even then her wound had been dripping something foul.

'Yes,' said the great Mab. 'They must have been newly raised, that's what they do. Stare at themselves and weep for all that time has done to them, as if only an imortal could understand the true loss of what is wonderful in the world. Still, it must be hard for strange elf folk such as they; to have been so beautiful as to make any mortal weep, and now well, we do not scream for their beauty. Could be worse though, the spirts raised in the bodies of animals go mad within days.'

Titania did not know if it was a joke or not, but she tried to smile anyway – it hurt, it always hurt but she grinned through the pain

Mab placed a skeletal hand over the sheep herder's brow, and told her to be quite less she make herself ill.

'The exact numbers of the dead do not matter to me, they outnumber us now, they have always outnumbered us Titania. The only reason this day had not come sooner, is they had not realised it yet.'

'And now that they do?' Said the sheep herder.

And Mab smiled at that, a strange smile, thin like thread. Something that should never have belonged on a mortal face.

'Tell me, Titania – while you were running from them did you see him?'

'See who?' Said Titania, though she was beginning to suspect she might already know the answer to that question.

'Why the blue wizard my dear, it always begins with the blue wizard.'

The Camp of the Dead

'Did you ever hear the proverb, that a wizard is never late, he arrives exactly when he intends to? Of course you've heard it, everyone gets lied to at some point in their lives. Then again perhaps the rules were slightly different for insane elven Fëa, possessing the body of a wizard. One would suppose that such a creature to be rare enough as to not really fit properly into any proverb, sensible or otherwise.

'Though to be fair, I never fit into one in my first life either.

'Oh, my dear, how long have I wondered in this terrible land; my spirit broken and you lost to me. When we destroyed the beast together, I thought I was free – free of the creature, free of the world and the leeches who clung to our light. We could have just stayed there my love, and sunk down to the bottom of the deep blue sea. But the waves, and the will of the Valar would see us parted and you were carried away from me by the rush of the tide. And I, well I landed here on this terrible land where the sun is no more and the trees grow unnaturally to block out even the frail light of the moon.

'Of course, it wasn't like that when I first clambered up on these harsh rocky shores. No, only when I stumbled in land and heard their screams, the screams of the living and the dead, did I realise the trap that I had let myself walk into. The dead fell that day, and the trees sprung from the ground and blocked the light from our sky. Had I been a second slower in clambering from the sea, I would have been stuck on the other side of this cage, and you my beloved shinning one, you would have been lost to me forever.

'Or at least as long as long as the witch lived.

'The witch who caught me in her cage – the only one of those of mortals who ever did. But even then, it only worked because we were so lost, me and the voices in my head. You had been taken from me, and without you I am mad – my living followers never noticed, but then they were mad too in their way. And my dead followers well…they can't notice anything beyond their own bodies now.

'I knew you were in here with me my lovely Silmaril – waiting, hidden for me to find you again. I always know when you and your siblings are near, I sense it, but this land in its darkness and its ways was still strange to me. I had no choice but to seek the witch out. She had trapped me in here and in the height of my delusions I thought perhaps I could convince her to give me you as recompense. But in the end, I hid my madness and love, I hid my name and my true purpose. I took on his name, his form, and his eyes – but I was still me, oh yes, I was still Fëanor son of Finwë and I would not be so easily bested by a mortal witch. She stole my light from me? I took her son from her.

'And in repayment, the world led me back to you, and I was made whole again.

'That's what they see in me, my love. Not some great leader, or mastermind of battle, but the light that had burned my mother from within, that shines within us both. I am greatness incarnate, but only if I remember it – and the only way to do that is to have you by my side again.

'My Wonderful

'My Beautiful

'My Silmaril.

'Look at me telling you what you already know, for we are of two souls entwined…all we need to truly be sane again is our other halves – the Silmarils together again, at long last. And the only way I…we can even hope to do that is if the Witch dies.

'Huh, I had never thought of that before, I've become far too merciful in my…weakness. The dead had flocked to me because unlike them even when I was mad, or sitting listening to the voices argue in my head, I had my own mind. That's why they still flock to me, why they congregate together and march on oafs like those Bear people. As if forming the steps of an army from memory long lost to the grave. Why shouldn't I use it? Hasn't the world taken enough from us? Don't I deserve something back? Even if it's only the death of the witch that trapped us in here.

'What do you think, My Love?'

The mass of moulding, retched blue robes that was the once proud son of Finwë turned then; expecting to see his beloved Silmaril – the only one out of the three that had returned to his hand – but this is not that story.

And every creature both living and dead; from the Mightiest of Beasts below the earth to the most afraid child hidden in the castle of Dunlich could hear the scream of Fëanor. But it was only one creature among the many, the fleeing sheep herder known to the few who knew her as Titania, who truly flinched from the sound. For it was only she, with her prize wrapped in an old cloak from a dead man pressed to her chest; that knew with the utter certainty of one who had caused the loss in the first place, why that terrible scream had come to be.

There would be no mercy for this thief, she knew it – and now all she could hope was that she could run fast enough to Dunlich Castle to make this sacrifice worth it.

Dunland, Dunlich Castle: One Week Later

If it was the intention of Mab and her Clans to provoke the wrath of the Dead before they'd finished amounting their full strength – then they had certainly succeeded. Of course, after a week held under siege from a ravenous and fairly feral army, they probably weren't feeling that victory so very keenly anymore.

They could hear the wails and screams of the dead from inside their stone block; but since no one was allowed on the battlements – so said the decree of Mab – they couldn't exactly see them. Every now and then an archer would risk unblocking an arrow hole in a wall to fire at the enemy. But always it was a mistake, for the enemy was not living and so arrows of any kind didn't exactly stop them. So, all you did was end up wasting your arrows, and putting yourself in dangerous proximity to their shrieks.

Never go near the walls, never go near the outside for it is not the dead's weapons that will get you, it is their shrieks. Never before in the history of the fight with those that should have remained in their graves had the voices of the dead held so much venom. So much poison towards the living. But then again, never in the history of the battle between the living and the dead had they had much cause to. Without magic or devine intervention the living could be overrun by the dead quite easily; and without a leader or some kind of unifying presence, the dead could only really shamble along, barely with enough presence of mind to not fall off a cliff. They might catch you and consume your flesh – but really only if you were slow or stupid enough to let them.

Now though…there was him and there was her, and there would be no rest for either the living or the dead while these two walked on the same earth.

Eight People.

Eight People sitting in a circle.

Eight people staring at a glass ball, waiting for it to do something.

It was ridiculous.

But then Magic, Titania realised, was a bit ridiculous. Earth floating above itself, fire catching alight with no sign of a flint's spark or a tree's smoke? Nonsense, perfectly sound nonsense. But then, wasn't it just nonsense that she – a silly little sheep herder (and hardly even that since there were no sheep anymore) was here sitting amongst these great people, leaders of the last of the clans, as if she belonged. Mab had wanted her here of course, had said it was important and well…no one disobeyed Mab.

Eight people sat in a circle around this…Silmaril; and only one of them really had any business in the like of magic. But then when did magic ever need sense to work? No all a good spell or incantation needed, was the power and of course a group of idiots to recite the thing. It didn't really matter if they understood it or not.

'I take the place, o the Queen of Winter.'

Mab said, sat at their head, her pale eyes almost lifeless and blank – she stared at that glowing gem like it was the very last hope of her entire existence. Which considering their current predicament, was more than a little ironic.

'The King of Winter.'

Next to her sat the Gondor Soldier, an extraordinary tall man that had taken his leader's place in the circle, when the other man had refused to comply with Mab's wishes. A fool's mistake if ever there was one, though in fairness being forced to sit still for no less than five counting hours – while outside the walls, the dead screeched and clawed at the stone of Dunlich. Still, to disobey one who held magic in her sway was an odd decision for any leader, Gondor must truly be the strangest of places.

'The Lady of Winter'

The next one down from the clearly uncomfortable soldier, was a woman dressed in a patchwork cloak of wolf fur. There were no wolves now in the land of the Clans, they had all been chased off either by the dead or the sight of Mab's magic – accounts did vary. She must have had that cloak for a while. Yet even sitting in this placid pose, Tatiana could see clearly the shine of her weapons under neath her wolf skin. For she was Medb, Chief of the Wolf Clan and there was no greater warrior in all the world.

'The Knight of Winter.'

Next over in the circle was a man who looked as thin as death – a dark haired wraith that would have not seemed so uncomfortable in the company of the dead. He wore a thin cloak and the bright red sash marking him as a bard of the Onex Clan. Ankou, she believed his name was – she remembered Mab barking it at him when she told him to leave his lyre by the door.

'The Knight of Summer.'

Another man made up the fifth member of the circle – his hair as red as the other's sash but truly that was the only similarity to the man that sat beside him. An elegant face that would have seemed intimidating if it had not been split open by the largest, and most warm-hearted smile that Titania had ever beheld. Corineus, a strange name for the leader of the Hawk Clan – a minor clan that normally would not been consulted with such important matters of the land. But then, Mab had insisted – and Mab always got her way.

'The Lady of Summer.'

The circle's sixth companion was a woman so small, one might – if they were of a foolish disposition – have mistaken her for a child. Thin, and weak seeming the red fur of her fox hood almost entirely obscured her face. And yet the kind dark eyes of Healer Varrey of the Fox Clan could not be so easily obscured.

'The King of Summer.'

Sitting beside Titania herself was a man who bristled with rage – he wore the sharp rounded armour of…the Bear Clan. One of the last of them, though she did not think him a chief or a leader. He was just a fighter, the only one of the Bear Clan that had survived the dead - she wasn't entirely sure of his name, but she thought she'd heard one of the others greet him as Cai when he'd sat down.

'I take my place as the Queen o Summer…may you accept our humble service, as recompense for what we ask of you today o light who made us all.'

And the last, and truly the least of the circle, was Titania herself. A simple sheep herder with no proper clan. The Sheep Clan wasn't really one big clan after all – though by far they had the most people to their name - just a loose collection of unnamed minor clans who happened to all work in the service of sheep.

All of them gathered around a glowing yellow ball, waiting for it to do something.

Entirely ridiculous.

And then Mab started to speak.

'Hear our voices,

'As they travel across the veil between our world and the next'

And the others began to chant: 'And the next, and the next.' Making even the blank faced Mab quirk her lips up ever so slightly. They were still chanting, all of them but Titania could no longer understand it, words that seemed to mean nothing at all drifted out of the other's mouths and all Titania could think was that this was getting farcical, even for magic.

Outside the muffle of the stone, she could just hear the scrape of the dead's steel and she felt herself tremble. This was it, this was how she would die -Dunlich would fall to the dead and the greatest leaders of the land would be helpless, because they were all here chanting this nonsense. And Titania could do nothing to stop it, she couldn't even get up – for her legs felt like two stone columns crumbled to the floor. She couldn't even close her mouth to stop the nonsense words tumbling out, all she could do was stare at the glass orb as it began to glow brighter. So bright, never before had she seen it's like – it was a beautiful thing, glowing and warm – it was like looking at joy, or love or all the good things in the world. And yet, as the glowing aura around it began to expand Titania could see…almost as if it was playing out in front of her…all the misery the thing, this beautiful thing had caused the world. The lives, families, civilisations that have been destroyed all to hold a beautiful thing…a beautiful thing that in fact couldn't even be touched by mortal or blood-stained hands.

It was like it was weeping – the strange glowing jewel in the middle of the floor. Weeping for all the lives it had ruined, and all the lives it had yet to ruin. The light in me, it seemed to whisper to Titania, is neither good nor evil it simply is; but that won't stop the Morgoths, and the Fëanors, and the Wizards of the world from using it, using their love of it to ruin everything else. The only way to escape that fate, at least for this jewel, was to run away – run away to a place where no one could ever touch it again.

And that, Titania realised with a start, as Mab started to speak again, was exactly what the Sorceress was going to do. Raising her thin, skeleton like hands up to the roof of the chamber where…had that…had the chamber's ceiling always been that swirling void of light. Looking deep into the thing, the lights half blinding her with the strain of it, Titania could not recall. How long had they been chanting? Did they do this? Or did the jewel, and suddenly Mab's voice rose in intensity.

'I feel the light that pours within you, oh great jewel of the forgotten ones, let it overflow and pour fourth from this world into the next. I beg you, creatures of the light from beyond, let the people of the clans, the people of this land both born and otherwise pass over. Let us come and make our dwelling within your realm, within your world for this one has forsaken us.'

'Forsaken us, forsaken us, forsaken us.'

Cried the others, though not Titania – for she was much too feared, feared of the swirling wind that whipped about the eight, feared about the swirling mass of lights over their head and feared…oh yes, very much feared of the snow that now fell from the roof.

'And as our bodies burn, we shall cross over and leave this world behind, leave it to the ghosts and the halflings.' Mab screeched.

'To the ghosts and the halflings, to the ghosts and the halflings' the others bellowed.

Outside the door there was the sound of screams, and clatter…and Tatiana knew then, stronger than she had ever known anything before in her life that the walls had fallen and the dead, the dead had come to claim their jewel. In her cowardice she closed her eyes and waited for the sound of the door to bang open, and for the feel of the sword in her back.

BANG!

Someone kicked the door open, oh yes but there was no sword. No scream of the dead, there was just the silence of expectation and the sound of…of Mab. She was laughing, wild and manic, she was laughing in someone's face. And given the current situation, it was not difficult to guess who that someone was.

'Oh, how the wee blue wizard will weep when I speak my final word on the matter,' giggled Mab like a girl of twelve counting years. 'But suddenly our work here is finished my lord, and we shall not see each other again till long since this current tale is past. But never you fear, for there is much still for Mab…Queen of of all fae folk…to be about. So, I say goodbye Fëanor, intermedium lord of the Dead, please give my son my best when you meet upon the battlefield. He may not remember me, but you will, aye you'll always remember Mab.'

'And why,' said another voice as cold as the very earth of a grave. 'Would I remember a trull like you?'

Mab cackled at that.

'Why, because a lord always remembers the thief of his treasure. Goodbye sir, never again will your ilk steal a body of the clans.'

The gem in the middle of the circle flashed a terrible mix of orange, gold and red and suddenly…suddenly there was no Titania the sheep herder anymore, for her body was gone, vaporized into dust. So stood true for everybody standing under the cage of Mab's trees. The dead screamed and wailed as their meat puppets disintegrated around them, they screamed loud enough to wake the living two continents over. But Fëanor did not care, because Fëanor cared about very little in this new half-life of his. The only thing…the only creature that Fëanor was capable of loving, the only thing keeping him somewhat sane – was gone. There was no jewel, no brilliant gem for him to hold and cradle to his body, even though it burnt him something terrible now.

His Silmaril was gone, they had stolen it from him…these…these mortals. Mortals…mortal men, mortal women, mortal dwarves and elves, and everything in between; they had stolen his gems from him. Every single time he had them in his hands they would come, those mortal creatures, and snatch them away. Now one flew in the sky – too far away for even Fëanor to reach. Another, had been stolen away by an old twit wearing a stupid blue robe and now finally, his last Silmaril – the Silmaril that had called to him from its ocean prison – that had been snatched too. By filthy mortal thieves…well they might be safe from his hands for now, but he would make all their kind pay for what they had done to him.

He would make them all pay – the living, the dead, they would all suffer his wrath.

And what of the thieves themselves you may ask, where had Mab spirited all those mortal souls under her cage? Well, to that I say, when you need a place to hide, to truly hide, what better place then away with the fairies.


	40. Chapter 40 : To Weep for the Dead

Middle-Earth, the Valley of Horrowdale: T.A. 3019

'Calgacus, Calgacus, you must wake now or be left behind.'

Calgacus grunted at the melodious sound of the elf's voice, gods but couldn't he be given some peace…an extra second of sleep? Who knew how many hours they had left in this world before their bodies were burned and scorched on the funeral pier? And yet, a swift kick to the midsection told the boy that sleep, for now at least, was beyond the capabilities of his party.

He found himself pulled to his feet by callous archer's hands. His own found his shield and he found himself pulled towards the sound of horses.

The night air was cold, colder even than back home.

'Legolas, where are we gooin.'

'Over here,' the sound of horses again, there was always the sound of horses with the Strawheads…with the Rohan. Yet these sounded different, scared, the kind of scared you came to expect around animals made to walk near…paths of the dead.

Suddenly Calgacus did not feel quite so asleep anymore, he stood straight and looked ahead of him. He spotted Aragorn and Gimli, holding the reins of their steeds as the beasts fretted and pawed the ground. The creatures looked half mad with terror and Calgacus knew that look all too well.

'Nae, we canna go in aire... nae doon aat path Legolas. It'll be the death o us aa.'*

'We do not have a choice,' said Aragorn appearing at the side of the boy and elf as quietly as if he himself was a wraith. 'There are not enough men in Rohan left to fight for Gondor, and if the white city falls now then every free man, woman and child shall follow them into death…or worse. If you do not wish to come Aon-adharcach you do not have to, but I'd rather we four hunters go together and seek out the men of the Dunharrow.'

'The _Dead _Men of the Dunharrow…ye dinna ken the dead son o Gondor, they're nae tae be trusted and these ones hiv nae cause tae like ye, Aragorn. Ye go courting yer ain death if ye willingly seek them oot, an aat won't help anyone.' **

'They will not refuse me, but I take it this means you will not be coming with us.'

'Ach aye, ah'll cum ben aa richt, if naething else bit tae see myself proven richt fur eence. The dead are nae tae be trusted, an ah'll say it tae ma throat goes shilt fae the strain. Bit ah'll nae let ye wonder inta their depths alone with only these love-sick fools aat yer back.' ***

'I am not love sick, will you please stop saying that I am.' Said Gimli from somewhere behind the Elf's legs.

It was cold, all paths of the dead – and there were many in this world – were cold, it was just a fact of…well, life. It was a deep cold, a cold that not even Legolas in all his ethereal wisdom could block out. The Elf shivered and clutched the dwarf riding before him tighter to his chest.

Ha not love sick indeed.

It made Calgacus want to smile, despite everything else. But he didn't, instead allowing them their privacy the son of the Clans turned his head forward to where Aragorn, seemingly oblivious to the cold around them, led his horse. The future King of Gondor had dismounted almost the second they had crossed into this strange, twisting path. His horse was much too spooked to hold him reliably, really all of them were but there was no way in all the depths of the darkness beyond worlds that Calgacus would step his own foot on a path of the dead.

'Calm yourself my friend,' said Aragorn to the skittish beast. 'Not for much longer will you walk these paths without the aid of your kin.'

An idle thought, brief and passing in the cold of the path – made Calgacus consider that statement vaguely insulting to the other horses present. Particularly when from up ahead he heard the sharp, rhythmic beating of the feet of many more horses.

Suddenly they were surrounded, yet not by the spirits of the dead – nothing was ever that simple – but by men, hundreds of men all of Aragorn's build and bearing, all riding similarly highly spooked animals. They'd have a stampede if they were not careful.

'Hail kin of my house, Rangers of the North, too long has it been since we have seen one another last.'

The wave of men seemed to part, and two horses – proud and strong, like the elves who sat upon their backs, stepped forward.

The Sons of Elrond had returned.

'Hail brother, too long indeed.' Said Elladan, his twin said nothing for clearly his mind was too preoccupied with what he held tightly in his arms: a small, wriggling, wailing bundle. He looked up then, the sharp unearthly blue of his eyes meeting Calgacus' grey ones over the infant's head.

'Lord Calgacus, I bring grave tidings from your homeland. The Dead have claimed the fortress of Dunlich and swarmed most of the strong holds of the high chieftains – we were barely able to escape ourselves.'

Horror, cold, sharp and biting as the air around them filled Calgacus then – and so it was true, he had made this journey, made this quest for absolutely nothing. His land was gone, a vessel for the dead and his people…his mother…

'How many escaped?'

It was a fool's hope, but he'd be killing himself on the inside every day if he didn't ask.

'None. I am so very sorry, Calgacus, we were too. Your mother has passed beyond even our father's sight.'

The Baby gurgled unhappily in the Elf's arms and Calgacus' eyes were once again brought back down to her. So small…so tiny…could it be and yet it was almost too much to hope.

'Whose child is that, it cannae been mine for they must be back in Rivendell with Aine.'

The brother's looked at each other then, their faces heated with the strength of their guilt.

'Come,' said one of them at last. 'Dis-mount and sit with us for a while son of Mab, it is a tale best not told from horseback.'

'Neen o aat, ah'll nae be soothed by ye son o Elrond, noo tell me whose child aat is afore ah actually lose ma temper.' ****

The elf with the child sighed and moved her in his arms ever so slightly so that the four hunters could see her face properly. Calgacus blanched and turning his eyes away from…from the face of the child, he growled.

'Fit have ye done to her?' Whose bairne is that? Where is my wife?'

_They had not been allowed to take many of their father's soldiers with them, the enemy was too strong, it's eye ever searching for the house of Elrond – thus only seven elves had followed them to the crooked cage that was the land of Dunland. Thank goodness they had run into the Rangers of the North, on their way to aid their king and kin - otherwise this story might have had a much bloodier ending._

_'So,' said Elladan to the twitching brother by his side. 'How are we going to get in?'_

_The sons of Elrond knew but two things well in their life: killing orcs and what a forest should look like. For instance a forest should not look like a cage, limbs twisted and morphed until they resembled far more the iron bars of man then any living thing. They should also not curve upwards in a kind of overarching dome that blocked the sunlight from all that stood below it._

_In fact, there was nothing natural about the forest that had sprung up around the land of Dunland nineteen years ago. This should have been obvious for anyone, given the forest's origins. But I feel it is important to note now that the sons of Elrond knew but two things well in their life, everything else just sort of floated by them._

_The twins turned then and grinned at one another, they may not have been the brilliant tacticians like their father, or intellectual poets like their sister, but somethings simply did not require that. Elrohir turned and addressed the elves and men that had followed them, a smile on his face and a sword in his hand._

_'Alright everyone, swords out, it looks like we'll be making some firewood for the poor souls who dare to follow our path.' And with that he swung his own sword at the sharp bark of the tree before him._

_With a tremendous strike of thunder, the least intelligent child of Elrond Peredhel was thrown backwards, skirting across the ground until he hit the leg of his much handsomer brother – who'd known to stand as far back as possible and thus had not been caught up in the collision, leaving them both flopping on the ground in an embarrassing mesh of limbs._

_That's when they heard it, a laugh, loud and joyful. Both brothers looked up to stare at the stranger that had come from behind them._

_He was an elf much like themselves, but taller, and with loud vivacious red hair all twilled around his head like a matron of a fishing village. He stood with hands on his hips, his legs splayed wide apart, and a sword at his side._

_'My,' said the strange elf. 'What a mighty thrust the sons of Elrond have…I must take care not to meet you in battle, less I lose a head.'_

_Elladan stood then and strode over, and with great grace gripped the stranger's outstretched hand._

_'Good day, my good fellow, and who might you be?'_

_'Why…my name hardly should matter to the son of Elrond…for it is only my purpose which thy needs to know. And my purpose today is to help thee enter that forest, though for what reason I haven't an idea.'_

_Elrohir smiled at the stranger._

_'If you know our father, then you should know his heart is larger than his mind, and he felt moved by the plight of the Dunlanders.'_

_The Elf laughed at that._

_'So, you have been sent to aid them then? Strange, for there is not many of you, even with your ranger pets, and Dunland is a fearsome place, I would not enter there with less than four hundred swords at my back.'_

_'Well, we don't have that.'_

_'No, but you have me…and perhaps that shall be greater aid than were you to bring an entire army to fend them off.'_

'Oh, sweet Valar,' said Aragorn, once again clearly unable to wait. 'Can we at least just ride on as you tell your story.'

The Elf that had been regailing them with the strange tale, turned and glared at the ranger.

'Just because a tale isn't about you, Ranger King, does not make it boring. I have worth too.'

The venom in the voice clearly unerved Aragorn more than he was willing to show his kin, and so he shrugged his shoulders and tried to pretend he found it funny.

'Have it your way brother, but clearly this is a trick of some kind. Elladan, please tell me you weren't stupid enough to accept his aid?'

'Shut up!'

_ 'That is a forest of magic there, sweet Elf, you can't chop it down…to enter you have to place your hand on the bark and wish to be inside.'_

_'You're kidding, I mean Elrohir and I have seen a lot of fanciful things…including an elderly hobbit doing a jig while completely plastered, it sounds mundane but believe me it's not – but that is too much.'_

_The elf did not smile, or quirk a brow, in fact the elf did not react at all instead he marched over to the forest before them and laid his hand on the bark of the tree, where upon that strange elf disappeared._

_Shall I tell you what happened then little brother? Shall I tell you what happened when we followed him, aye, you already know don't you, I can see it in your eyes. We were pulled into that forest by the fronts of our tunics and we landed in the dark._

_I won't bore you with the details of what we saw next, because we saw nothing. No sky, no ground, no dead, no living, there was nothing there, nothing but the faint whisper of the wind in the distance._

_I'm sorry Calgacus, there was nothing left._

_Nothing but the twin sons of Elrond and their guide._

_But you see their guide was not a guide at all…but a wraith. One that had been waiting so long, too long for a body of his own. You see he'd had to share the last one they found, and while that was fantastic…he'd loved that life…he longed for something of his own. A body much like he had been in his first life…his twin life._

_That's the joke, for the twin sons had come to this place…this dark terrible place to save the people here. Well the people of Dunland were already dead…but their mission was not a complete failure. For you see they did save someone that day…in fact they saved quite a lot of someone's that day…they just weren't anyone living._

'What are you talking about, Elladan…your story stopped making sense the second you tried to describe Dunland.' Snarled Legolas, as he tried to control his horse around the unnerving sight of Elladan smirking.

'Oh, did I? I am sorry my living brethren, sometime after you takeover a body your mind starts to get fuzzy. So, I'm afraid I can't describe in detail how they all died. They were gone when I got back.'

'Fit ye talking aboot?'

'Ah, Calgacus, how can my brother and I explain it in a way you and the child will understand.'

'Well, brother there is always the obvious way.'

'Yes, but which one of us…we've never had to choose before, but it might upset him if we both did it. And I did carry the child for most of the journey.'

'Fine, just make it quick, we do have a schedule to keep.'

'Fit ye...'

And with that Elladan kissed Calgacus.

It was not clear who was more disappointed by the outcome, the angry youth who in a half-daze of horror shoved the elf warrior away with the name of 'Aine' on his lips. Or the King in waiting who realised that that wasn't his foster brother behind those eyes anymore. In fact, as he stood surrounded by warriors he had once called family, he realised that that family had died a long time ago and that these were not the eyes of kinsmen that look out at him now – they were the eyes of dead men.

His sword was in his hand before he could remember what to do with it and he swung, not even caring who he hit anymore.

And the battle began.

This wasn't real, this was a dream, a terrible, awful dream that he would wake up from any second now…any second now and he'd be back home. Back home, where the sky was always dark, the sun never came, and the light…didn't really exist.

He'd always wanted to see the sun, yet how hard did it burn him now, as Legolas pulled him backwards and away from…from…not Aine. And yet, it had been her that kissed him with the elf's mouth, hadn't it? He'd never kissed anyone else, maybe everyone kissed like that…maybe…maybe it was all a lie. Maybe she had never wanted him, loved him, maybe she had run away as soon as she saw the light on his face and everything else was only a dream.

Maybe, maybe, maybe…maybe…it seemed his whole life was maybes. Maybe he might live to see his child grow up, maybe he might see the sun one day, maybe the dead would not rise that night, maybe…maybe…maybe.

In his arms the child cried…and he…he couldn't even look down at her, because she was real…realer than he ever was and he couldn't bear to look. Because if he did, then he'd know what his wife had really been…and none of them, those wise chieftains and elders and warriors who had arranged their match…they'd all missed it. Aine was never Aine at all, she was something older…something very much not living…not living at all. And what could come from a union of the living and the dead?

He looked down at the child in his arms and he couldn't look away…because she was him and she was Aine at least on one half of her face. All pink and angry, her little features all twisted up to deliver a crying wail that even the dead flinched from. And yet on the other side of her face – of her body he realised, when one tiny gangrene arm flailed out from underneath her blanket and wacked her father weakly on the thumb – was dead. Or at least it seemed dead, if the skin wasn't green and crawling with something, that looked like a maggot than it was all purple and blue. One eye socket was hollow, the flesh scraped away to reveal the bone of his daughter's skull. And yet this side was him too wasn't it? He'd been born in the dark, alone with the dead…just as she had been born alone in the light.

Alone…forever alone.

Around them, the battle screamed – swords clashed, men of the living and the dead locked in combat that neither of them could really win. Not without fire anyway, and the torches they had carried from the Strawhead camp had gone out when some idiot had dropped them on the ground. And standing here amongst it all, with his crying daughter in his arms, he realised something that he had he never even considered before. It would never end, this fight between the living and the dead, it would just never end. Growing up under the cage, Calgacus has always imagined that when it came down – or when he escaped it – and everyone saw the sun again, that would be the end of the dead. The fight would be over, the fear, the horror, the revulsion – it would all end and everyone would live happily ever after. But such things did not exist in this world; the dead had escaped the cage. His mother was gone and Aine…Aine had never existed in the first place.

The only thing that still mattered, far above the fight for a land that would never know peace, was his daughter. His child who was still screaming, still screaming he realised because she was afraid. Afraid of the swords, and the loud noise, just afraid of everything. He tried to rock her against his body, concealing her from the terror around them – but it did not good.

His daughter, his little Hel, was not fooled.

She knew the truth, that neither of them would ever be safe or happy again.

There was only one option, the others wouldn't understand…they never did…but it was the only way out for either of them. He saw it all now, they didn't belong in the sun with the living clawing at them every day of their lives. The child would be hunted, would be killed by the living, and as for the dead…she was not one of them, they would not take his daughter as they had his wife. He wouldn't let them; he was her father and he would keep his daughter safe…at least he could do.

'Calgacus! Calgacus where are you…'

Legolas screamed but it was too late, Calgacus had taken off out of the battle, and towards the paths of the dead.

There was too many of them to fight…too many of them to even run from. In the past Legolas had long thought about what it would be like to die. Not fade away like his mother did, or sail across the sea like many of his brothers had…but to die as a mortal would. He imagined himself growing old, truly old, his hair white as snow on the mountain tops, and his face crinkled and stretched all wrong. He imagined closing his eyes one day and knowing no more, he imagined leaving the world – truly leaving it behind, and he imagined peace as only the second born could truly know.

He had not in fact imagined this as his death, to be surrounded by gnashing, snarling monsters in the guises of men…men he had known well …men he had almost called brothers. The Twin sons of Elrond had stepped back and away from the fight, but they were still visible over the snarling heads of the others, still visible as they clutched each other and laughed at their once friend's plight. No these were not the sons of Elrond at all, they were different…they were broken…the sons of Elrond would never be capable of such callous butchery.

And yet was that even true? For if he had been born a orc, had to fight the brother's in their crusade to butcher his kind from existence, would he think so kindly of them? Strange thoughts in deed, but perhaps those are the thoughts of the soon to be dead. Perhaps he really would know what came next.

And then, like a bird song in the distance the sounds of thundering hooves came over the horizon. The sounds of the riders of Rohan…. they were not alone. Their enemy turned startled at the noise a split second before the riders were upon them.

I could tell you of the battle, how great and glorious it was but that would be a lie, for no battles are great and glorious and this one less than most. All that matters is that the day was saved, and they at least, were not going to die right now. Legolas turned to call out to the boy who had fled. To tell him to come back, that the danger was gone but the entrance to the path of the dead was no longer there, it was nothing more than a pile of rubble: rocks and dirt …Calgacus and the babe were trapped on the other side.

The strange halfling Fool stood before that pile of dirt and stones where the path should have led, his arms outstretched as if reaching for something no one else could see. Reaching for something in the darkness beyond them all and a feeling overcame the elven prince upon that sight, a strange feeling like terror or something worse than that, that he could not name. And then the halfling stopped, and let his arms flop to his sides, and the over whelming pressure in the air died with it. The small creature turned then and smirked at Legolas.

'Prince Legolas, perhaps we should join the others in making their way back to camp, after all the pathways of dead men are no place for living folk.'

And just like that the last of his fear vanished, and it seemed even silly that it had existed at all. For what was there to fear in so small a creature as a hobbit? And this hobbit was so small that when he bent and lifted Calgacus' shield, the strange metal object was twice the size of the poor creature. Oh Calgacus, surely not trapped at all, he realised now that the fear had left him - but crushed and burried.

'If you'll excuse me, my Lord Eomer is going to be needing this very soon.' And with those strangely ominous words, the hobbit left.

It was an old saying of his father's people to weep not for the dead of mortal kind, for they are freer than any elf born …but Legolas had never been made of such hardy stuff, and weep he did that day and for many days to come.

For how could you do any less for the dead that had never lived at all?

*'No, we can't go in there…not down that path Legolas. It'll be the death of us all.'

**'The Dead Men of the Dunharrow…you don't know the dead son of Gondor, they're not to be trusted and these ones have no cause to like ye, Aragorn. You go courting your own death if you willingly seek them out, and that won't help anyone.'

*** 'Oh yes, I'll come all right, if nothing else but to see myself proven right for once. The dead are not to be trusted, and I'll say it to my throat goes horse from the strain. But I'll not let you wonder into their depths alone with only these love-sick fools at your back.'

**** 'None of that, I'll not be soothed by you son of Elrond, now tell me whose child that is before I actually lose my temper.'

** Calgacus and his daughter will return.**


	41. Chapter 41: The Jewel & the Spider

Arda, Middle-Earth, The Land of Mordor, Shelob's Lair : T.A. 3019

Sam buried his scared face against the cold, web encased shoulder of his dear master. Oh, what a fool he'd been to ever trust that villain Gollum even for a second. True Mister Frodo had done the same, but he had much larger reasons for dropping his guard round the vile creature. He had the ring to contend with, and his growing desperation to find some good in that wretch only spoke of his own fears should they fail. Sam's only excuse was shame that he'd fallen short of his master's ideal.

Well, he would never make that mistake again, if he had learned anything from this, it was to follow his gut about sneaky little wretches.

'Oh, Mister Frodo, what has your Sam let happen to you?'

_It's always the same little one, I leave my food out for one second and it attracts so many more of you._

That voice hadn't come from his own head. Slowly letting his master go, the young hobbit turned and stared into the darkness behind him.

_Such a pretty little thing this one is, so bright and shiny on the inside. Think I'll enjoy eating you most of all._

That voice, oh ancestors, he knew where it came from now.

The engorged body of the spider slithered from the darkness. The large yet somehow spindly legs click clacked against the floor of her cave, and inside his mind Sam heard her voice again.

_So long since I've had a good meal, orc flesh will keep me sustained, but it won't stop me longing for something pure and sweet. Something like you little creature, I'm not even sure what you are but oh how good you will be on the way down. I'm going to take my time with you, truly savour the meal you'll make me._

Rising to stand Sam positioned himself so that he was blocking his master's body from the spider's view. Beside his feet lay Sting, and Sam was quick to grab the sword and heft it threateningly at the gargantuan arachnid.

'Back you villain! You shall not touch him again!'

_So hungry, so hungry, you'll make a nice snack, yes, you'll make a lovely snack._

She clattered her pincers and Sam had to leap over his master's body to avoid the jagged things, when she suddenly lurched for him. Desperately Sam's eyes searched the ground for Lady Galadriel's vial. He had never felt completely comfortable when Mister Frodo would take it out of his coat's pocket, but if anything could blind the wretched beast it would be that.

With a shock of sheer joy Sam spotted it in the corner, hidden almost out of sight by one the creature's vast webs. He made a dash for it, but his feet were too slow and too clumsy, and he tripped. The fall left him stunned for less than a second, but it was already too late. Like some kind of delicate dancer one long leg of Shelob stretched over the fallen hobbit and jabbed at the vial behind the web. It rolled out with a clicking clatterer and the leg stopped it just out of Sam's reach. Then with a sickening crunch, she crushed the vial, and any power it might have had died with it.

Sam couldn't stop the cry from escaping his lips. The spider seemed to be laughing as she slowly lowered her massive body down onto Sam.

Acting on more instinct than thought really Sam thrust the blade of Sting deep into the spider's under-belly as she sank on top of him. She screamed just as she laughed, with a clatter of her great pincers and a hollow roar of pain. But she didn't stop sinking, in fact if anything she increased it. Sinking down further on the hobbit's sword.

Sam had begun to lose precious air, his body half crushed already under the monster and he wildly thrash his blade this way and that desperate to cause some kind a harm to the terrible creature. Then with the last breath of air left in him Sam let out one last bombastic scream.

'Get off me!'

A searing hot wealth of pain consumed him then, but it did not come from the creature on top of Sam. No for she had been thrown up into the air and had struck the roof of the cave with an all mighty crash. No, this pain had come from within himself, from his very soul even. The very thing that made Samwise Gamgee, Samwise Gamgee was doing this to him now. No, not him, it was doing it to her.

That terrible, glorious light filled the cave and suddenly Sam no longer felt the need to scream anymore. For he was the light and all he wanted to do now was laugh. Laugh and maybe cry some more, though he felt like he had been doing that his entire life.

From above him Shelob screamed as that awful light worked its will on her, and she began to burn. Slowly at first her flesh merely beginning to sizzle, but then the flames really took hold and in less than the time it would take to sing a hobbit drinking song, Shelob the great and terrible was no more. All that was left of her bulbous body was a small pile of ash, that littered the ground in front of Sam's feet.

Sam lay weak and panting on the floor as a gleam caught his eye. It was the ring, now no longer attached to the chain around his master's neck. It was rolling towards him, almost of its own volition. He tried to move, though whether to grab it or stop it he wasn't entirely sure yet. But whatever the case it hardly mattered, for all the energy the hobbit had left – and that wasn't a great deal to start with – had been used up in battle with that vicious creature.

It bumped against his fingertip and Sam would have screamed if he still could, when he felt it slide onto one of his placid fingers. But he couldn't, all he could do was lie there invisible to any onlooker as the orcs approached. All he could do was watch as they found his master and, in their barking laughter, revealed him to be alive; and all he could do was stare in horror as they picked him up and carried him away to their terrible tower.


	42. Chapter 42: The Light in the Tower

Middle-Earth, Mordor: T.A. 3019, March 14th 

The ring was not, as many believed, a being in of itself. It was now and would remain until the day of its destruction, just a small part of its creator's soul. It would never have thoughts or fears of its own, at least not as a mortal would understand them. It felt what its master felt, it craved what he craved, and it only understood what he understood. Right now, the one ring was caught somewhere _between _those two emotions.

It partly understood what it had witnessed, in as it would be thoroughly difficult not to know when a beast such as Shelob was dead. Yet it still didn't quite know how the Halfling that now carried it, had accomplished the feat. It would be one thing if the fat little creature, with the jagged lines down its face had carried that nasty elven vial, like the bearer had, but no, that thing had been smashed by the great spider herself.

So, then there was no logical source for the light that the ring could see – well as far as rings could see anything. It had simply poured forth from the hobbit like he himself was some kind of elven-phial. It did not make sense to the ring and that was as close to fear as it could ever come. Yet as much as it feared this strange light the ring longed somehow to see it again, no not see it, the ring longed to possess it, as its creator had once longed to possess it.

Yet now, the ring thought with an emotion some might have called glee, it was far closer to that glorious light than its maker had ever been. Always held back, always kept away, Sauron was never allowed to touch them…those wonderful gems… yet the ring certainly did now. If it had limbs it would have caressed the jewel it clung to.

Sam shivered, praying that that horrible feeling of watchful evil around him had come from his surroundings, and not from the ring on his index finger.

Middle-Earth, Mordor, Tower of Cirith Ungol: T.A. 3019, March 15th

Sam crouched behind a rock wrapped under the invisible weight of his elven cloak, as he stared up at the looming height of the Orc's Tower. Perhaps it had once been fair and well-made but no more, crooked and twisted its turrets stretched high into the blackened red sky of Mordor. In his hand the Ring seemed to hum against his skin, and Sam closed his eyes and tried to shut out the jagged voice that hissed sweet sounds into his ear. The ring had been oddly silent since its one and only attempt to sway him to its will; a fact that he had been grateful for as he scrambled along the dusty roads of this land.

Yet when he'd reached the thing's base and beheld the many armoured Orcs that stood between him and the door, the Ring had begun its assault again. Not a surprise there from what he had observed of Mister Frodo and, Blarney, even that slinker Gollum. What was strange was that the Ring had not hissed at him to put it on. No quite the contrary, it had practically screamed at him to stuff it in his pocket and run, run far away from here. Far away from this doomed land, far away from the mountain of fire, far away from any who would try and grab and lay claim to him as if he were some precious jewel to be locked away in an old oak chest. Old fears from childhood, fears of darkness and enclosed spaces, began to creep back into the forefront of Sam's mind and he found it hard to breath. His terror was so great, and so keenly egged on, that he very nearly did turn tail and run right there. A scream from near the top of the tower stopped him, a scream he didn't need no help in recognising. There was no time for fear here, no room for the cowardice of childhood, Mister Frodo needed him…Mister Frodo was going to die and die in pain if he didn't buck up and do something. So, Sam, with a quick flick of the eyes to make sure there was still no other way past the guards, ignored the pain in his head and put the Ring on.

_No!_

The Ring seemed to wail at him, and a wave of pain ten times what he had ever experienced flooded his body, and Sam found it difficult to even get up from the ground let alone walk towards the guards.

_I won't let them have you. I won't let them have you._

Sam ignored the voice and continued to march towards the door, even though every step he took was more agonizing than the last. He should have been silent, he should have been as stealthy as any hobbit might have been but as it was, he was lucky just to have made it halfway past the second guard before he fell to his knees, practically heaving with the pain. His front teeth bit down hard on his lower lip until blood began to trickle down his chin. Even then he couldn't quite keep the squeal of pain from escaping past his lips.

'What was that?'

One of the smaller guards growled and his larger companion turned to face where Sam should have been huddled. Another wave of pain, and the ring pointedly did not laugh, but instead cooed into his ear. The hobbit felt a gentle pressure, amongst the rapidly rising racks of pain, it moved from his finger and up through the rest of his body. It was as if he was some small frightened animal, and the ring was stroking him to try and calm him down. That comparison took on a frightening new light when the large Orc's heavy claw lowered over Sam's bent head, and a sharp stab of pain began in the hobbit's chest. Samwise lost the fight with himself and screamed, his heart going into spasms; and as the large Orc reeled back from the sound, Sam Gamgee's heart shuddered to a stop.

But only for a second.

For less than a second Sam Gamgee died, for less than a second his heart stopped, but in the end, that was all it took to awaken that thing in his chest. That pulsing, searing light that had always been there in him. With a thump and a shudder, the hobbit's heart rammed back into action, and the Orc was thrown against the wall of the tower. His neck snapped and the small orc beside him howled in a fit of terror.

Sam didn't know whether it had been the Ring's intention to kill him or not, but he knew it had done it all the same. And he knew something was wrong with him, something had changed when his heart had missed that beat…something was different. A new feeling of power coursed through him, it was bright, and it was blinding, and it was all too familiar. He could hear the orcs screams all around him, but all he could see was that light. That same light that had consumed the spider, that same light that had overwhelmed him in her tunnel, that same light that had haunted his nightmares for as long as he could remember. Yes, all he could see was that light and all he could hear was a small, angry little voice at the back of his head.

_Yes, yes, what was I thinking this is even better._

Shagrat was not a stupid Orc, if anything he would say that for an Orc, he was rather bright. It's just that well, all that brightness didn't really get you far in the Mordor army. Just shut up and do what you're told Shag, that was what his mother had always told him, yet as the years went on, he found that particular command harder and harder to follow. Take now for instance, he had been told to stand here and not move – technically speaking he was told to stand here and guard the stairway, but that had not actually been the words that Shagrat's commander had bellowed in his face. Yet when he heard the screams from down below him, and the sound of the creature's footsteps echoing up the stairwell, his first instinct was to run and run far. Shagrat was bright, but at the end of the day he would always be a coward, he just so happened to fear his commander more than he feared the creature coming towards him. That was why he didn't run like the others did, that was why he remained at his post, that was why he saw the creature first.

Many a person, had they seen what Shagrat saw now, would have focused on the light that emitted from the creature. But Shagrat was an Orc, and Orcs even at the best of times tried not to focus on the light. No instead Shagrat looked past it, or tried to anyway, to the creature that now stood before him. It was a small thing really, almost as small as the new prisoner being held at the top of the tower. Its skin glowed with a golden sheen that seemed to go further than the light it emitted, long jagged scars lined the thing's face from jaw to hair-line, and the eyes were a haunting green. Those eyes should never belong to something mortal; they should barely belong to an elf and this was no elf.

The creature walked slowly, sedately even, towards Shagrat. Shagrat looked down at the creature, the curly golden hair on its crown bouncing pleasingly with each step it took towards him. Shagrat was not entranced, no he just chose to remain standing exactly where he was as the creature finally stopped in front of him.

'Are you afraid?' Said the creature, its north-country accent rolling pleasantly over each word.

'Yes, every day.' Said Shagrat forgetting that he was supposed to be terrifying as he knelt down until he was at almost eye level with the small thing.

'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.' Said the creature as it reached its small hand up to Shagrat's face and cupped his equally scared cheek. The light was so great then, so bright before Shagrat's eyes that he couldn't ignore it anymore and Shagrat screamed.

It would be many years after that light, many strange and perplexing years, until Shagrat could see probably again.

Few of Shagrat's company died that day, only the orcs who were foolish enough to challenge the creature. That creature of light and flesh and smooth tilled soil, that creature that had clawed through Shagrat's commander's flesh like it was so much warm pudding. The creature who had sent the tower practically ablaze with its gentle crooning of an ugly elfish tune. Aye Shagrat may not be ever able to call himself a Mordor Orc anymore, but he would never look on Elvish Music as anything but a din.


End file.
